Mercedes Lackey - The Serpent's Shadow

"Curse it!" she swore, and looked up. Somehow the old lady had managed to remain—or struggle—upright, probably because it was Maya who had taken the brunt of the collision.

The old woman shook her head, looking remorseful, and made a helpless gesture with both hands.

"Oh, dear—are you mute?" Maya asked, mouthing the words carefully so that the old woman might be able to make out what she was saying if she was also deaf. The old woman nodded sadly.

"I'm sorry. It's all right, dear, it wasn't your fault.

Here, let me help you—" She groaned a little for her bruises as she levered herself up off the street, then stooped to help the old lady gather up the scattered fruit and replace it in her tray. They weren't able to gather anywhere near as much as had fallen—the little brats had stolen half of them and carried them off.

"Here you are—and here, dear, this is for the apples that were run off with—" Maya said, giving her a handful of random coins. The old lady nodded, and patted her hand, then turned to go back the way she had come.

Sudden dizziness overcame her, and she put one hand against the wall to steady herself. A second wave, more powerful than the first, struck her, and she had to cling to the wall with both hands.

What—

The old woman turned around and looked back at her—and smiled—and held up a syringe filled with red, filling her sight, red, filling her mind with red—

Then black, black, black came up and filled mind and eyes and everything, and she slid down the wall and knew nothing more.

IT was a dull day; no one had come in at all this morning, and Peter moved restlessly about the shop, dusting off his curios even though they didn't need dusting, moving them fractions of an inch to display them better. He couldn't feel settled, somehow. He was ill-at-ease and fretful.

For one thing, he couldn't stop worrying about Maya. He hadn't slept much last night, thinking about her, worrying over the increased danger she might be in. Unfortunately, the future was as opaque to him as a block of stone. Prescience was not a gift often given to Masters of any sort. Perhaps the Greater Powers felt that Masters had gifts enough without being able to see into the future as well. He could easily be worrying about nothing, and that was the problem, he just didn't know.

If only he could find a way to persuade the White Lodge to help protect her! He'd bearded old Alderscroft again in his den last night, to no avail.

"Let the foreigners contend among themselves," the Old Man had rumbled. "We have no reason to embroil ourselves in their quarrels."

No matter how much Peter tried to persuade him, to the Old Man, Maya was an Outsider, and never mind that half of her was as English as the Old Man. The White Lodge had enough on its plate, he said, trying to defeat this mysterious killer-by-night—which might, or might not, be Shivani, according to the Old Man—and now Alderscroft was not entirely certain they should even do that, not without investigating the past lives of all those who had been killed! The Old Man had actually voiced the thought that if these men had committed a crime against Indians worthy of the punishment, it would be better to let the vengeful entity sate itself, for the victims had brought their punishment on themselves!

Sophistry—and an excuse for doing nothing—if ever he had heard one! Perhaps his distaste had shown itself in his expression, for the Old Man had quickly retracted the doubtful argument, and gone back to insisting that the White Lodge had all it could do to try and stop the killer in its tracks.

But he did hint that Maya herself wouldn't be in danger if she had simply reconciled with her aunt. Peter had been hard-put to hold down his anger. If she was my wife, he wouldn't have a choice, Peter reflected sourly. He'd have to help protect her — or risk alienating three quarters of the Lodge — for if he wouldn't move to protect my wife, how could he be depended upon to order the protection of the wives and children of anyone else?

Then it hit him, with the sudden impact of a thunderbolt. Dear God, if You put that into my head, thank You! he thought, mood turning abruptly from anxiety to elation. I’ll marry her! By heaven, I'll shut up the shop right now and get hold of Almsley; he can get a Special License in two hours with his connections. If I put it to her that it's for her protection, surely, surely —

Oh, of course she'd consent! And put so sensibly, she would not think the proposal amiss, or too sudden, or too forward, or too anything!

And as an excuse to get past his own cowardice over proposing to her—

Damn it, I love her, and she loves me, I know it. Make it only the excuse to marry now, the excuse to Almsley to get us a Special License, you fool! Yes, he'd go to Almsley, get the license, then go right to Maya and throw himself at her feet—

He turned, tossing the duster aside—

And a burst of light before his face nearly blinded him.

An aureole of brilliance, rainbowed at the edges, but electric white at the center, blossomed no more than three feet from him. It screamed magic to all his senses, overwhelming all other impressions; he threw his arm up instinctively, sheltering his face against the glare.

Out of the center of the light flew a small green parrot, screaming like a terrified banshee. It shrieked in Urdu—he could only make out a few things in his confusion. Murder. Serpent. Help.

Maya's name.

It was only there a moment, then it turned and flew back into the light, which collapsed and vanished behind it, leaving his eyes dazzled and ears buzzing in the silence.

But he didn't need an interpreter to know that something terrible had happened to Maya.

He didn't stop to think, didn't pause for anything, not for a hat, not even to lock up the shop. He ran out into the street, waving wildly at a hansom cab just up the block. The driver looked vaguely familiar—was it the one that often brought Maya home at night? At any rate, he knew a desperate man when he saw one; he pulled up his horse long enough for Peter to fling himself inside, waited only to hear the address before shouting at his beast and giving the reins a mighty

shake to send it into a headlong gallop, cracking his whip over its head to urge it on. The cab lurched as the horse surged forward into the traces so eagerly it might have been a racehorse or a cavalry mount that had only been waiting for the opportunity to launch into a full-out charge. Peter clung to the inside of the cab like grim death; either the driver had guessed at the level of emergency from his face, or he was hoping for a handsome tip—which he would get— or both.

Probably both.

Hansoms were two-wheeled vehicles; this one not only bounced over the cobbles but occasionally went airborne for a moment as it hit a particularly large bump. People flung themselves out of their path as they careened headlong down the street, but they needn't have bothered; the driver and his horse showed a level of skill at judging the traffic ahead and the places that they could squeeze through that was positively supernatural. The horse was soon drenched in sweat, drops of foam and sweat flying from its mouth and neck as it pounded around a corner, yet it showed no sign of wanting to slacken its pace, and the driver never again touched his whip, which remained in its socket up beside him.

The torture of each hard bump and landing was nothing compared to the torture of his heart. His gut clenched; his heart was a cold lump of icy terror. The cab swayed wildly from side to side as the driver swerved around slower-moving vehicles. Mindful that he might need the man's services immediately after he got to Maya's home, Peter let go of one side of the cab and pulled out his notecase, extracting a tenner which he stuck in his breast pocket. He stuffed the pocketbook back in his coat, grabbing the side of the cab again as they cut around a corner on one wheel. A tenner was more than double the proper fare; the man and his horse weren't going to suffer for this.