Mark Del Franco - Face Off

Whiting pulled out the stone fragments. “The locks should release now. Pull up on the clamps on your side there.”

He stooped and yanked at two large stone levers while Laura and Sinclair opened the others. “Now what?” Laura asked.

“The lid’s heavy,” Whiting said. “I used essence to lower it into place, but now that it’s activated, it will drain us the moment we touch the pod. We need to lever it open as quickly as possible.”

“You guys are the brains of the operation. I’ll do it,” said Sinclair. Bracing one foot against the wall, he dug his fingers into the channeled seam that encircled the pod. With a shout, he heaved upward, throwing himself against the opposite wall. The lid pivoted, missing Laura and Whiting by inches. Pale, Sinclair slid to the floor.

Laura rushed to his side, and he smiled up at her. “And before you ask, no, that wasn’t an ability. I’m just freaking strong.”

Laura didn’t answer as she scanned his body signature. His medallion interfered, but as far as she could determine, his contact had been brief enough to cause only a minor dip in his essence levels.

She straightened and froze as she saw inside the pod. Cress lay on her back, unconscious, her body twisted in pain. In the short time she had been missing, every bit of fat had been leeched away beneath her skin. Her head was tilted back, cheekbones prominent, mouth agape as if she were crying out. Her whiteless eyes, though, bulged in their sockets and burned with a dark light.

“Dear Danu . . .” Laura whispered. On impulse, she touched Cress’s cheek. Thick violet tendrils of light slithered out of the leanansidhe ’s skin and wrapped around Laura’s hand, sucking at her body essence. With a startled cry, Laura yanked her hand back, rubbing the skin.

The Monument trembled around them, cracks snaking up the walls.

“I don’t think this place is taking the stress,” said Sinclair.

Whiting peered into the pod. “She’s trapped in a fugue state. Until she regains consciousness, the pod will keep draining essence into the Monument.”

“Will it help if we pull her out?” asked Laura.

Whiting scratched at the side of his head. “It should. The warding on the Monument will be disrupted, but I don’t know if that will be enough. We’re actually inside a stone ward now. Cress might not need to be in the pod anymore for the draining to continue. “

Laura clutched Sinclair’s arm as another tremor rocked the building. “Well, let’s drag her out of here.”

Whiting shook his head. “We won’t make the front door with her. Cress herself will keep draining essence until she awakens and stops.”

Laura narrowed her eyes in thought. “Then we’ll relay her out. Whiting, you get her as far as you can into the lobby. Jono will take her from there, and if he can’t make it out the door, I’ll finish the final leg.”

“He’s not fey,” Whiting said. “He won’t last more than a few moments against her.”

Laura made sly eye contact with Sinclair. “He’s full of surprises.”

Another tremor sent masonry falling from the ceiling. “I don’t think we have a choice, folks,” said Sinclair. “Let’s do this and get out of here.”

Whiting activated his body shield and reached into the pod. He pulled Cress by her arms and over the lip of the pod. His shield dimmed as he struggled with her, then faded entirely.

“Faster, Whiting,” Laura said.

She watched his body signature fade next. With a last burst of energy, Whiting wrapped his arm around Cress’s waist and collapsed, using his weight to take her to the floor. Sinclair darted in and dragged him away from Cress. “He’s not dead, but he didn’t last long. I don’t think this is going to work.”

Laura crouched beside Cress. “He was already drained once tonight, Jono. I think we’ll last longer. Hand her off to me before she knocks you out.”

She met his eyes. “Ready?”

“Ready,” he said.

With a deep breath, he hauled Cress off the floor and onto his shoulder. The contact staggered him backward as deep purple tendrils lashed into his body signature. He recovered his balance and charged for the door. His body essence wavered halfway across the lobby. Thicker ropes of essence slithered out of Cress and tangled into his body essence. He fought against the intrusion, forcing himself forward.

Wake up, Cress, Laura sent. The sending shredded in her mind.

Sinclair stumbled, his legs weak beneath him. He wasn’t going to make the doors. He pushed forward, his strength slipping away like a receding tide. He pressed on, determined to cover more distance, struggling to within a few feet of the entrance.

“Take her!” he gasped.

He slipped to his knees as he draped the weight of Cress’s body over Laura’s shoulder. With more essence pouring into Cress from the Monument, purple tendrils of light wound around Laura’s body shield as she pressed through the door. Dazed and nauseated, she staggered across the pavement outside. The landscape spun as she fell forward. Cress rolled away from her. Someone helped Laura stand, but she couldn’t stay upright.

“I need earth beneath me.”

She was dragged out into the hot night air and eased to the ground.

EYES CLOSED, LAURAbecame aware of darkness first, her sensing ability not registering anything. The dead earth pressed against her back, its inherent essence a bare trickle. The staccato sounds of gunfire reached her next, a distant echo that sounded more harmless than it was. With the shriek of jet engines overhead, she forced her eyes open.

An army officer stood guard over her. Above, essence whirled like a corona around the man’s head as it flowed over the top of the Monument. Laura eased into a sitting position. With a short chant, she tapped into the essence in the air. The tenuous connection flared, and she drew strength from the flow, drinking it in like she was parched. As a druid, she needed to touch something to tap its essence, but so much of it gathered in the air around the Monument that she was able to recharge herself.

The Monument glowed with a sickly indigo light. The faint sheen of the dampening field warped and twisted off the peak in a spiraled dome. Without Cress connected to it anymore, the field was collapsing in on itself, its own stolen essence feeding the dampening.

In the strong wind, smoke and the stench of burning wafted across the Mall. Whiting lay not far off, alive but unmoving. Dizzy, Laura let the soldier help her to her feet. The hulk of a Blackhawk helicopter smoldered on the ground on the other side of the Stryker.

“Where is she? Where’s Cress?” she asked.

He pointed beyond the burning vehicles. “She went that way.”

“She did? She’s walking?”

He nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.”

She wandered through the haze, soldiers running in the same direction, toward the White House. A pall of smoke rolled across the grass, obscuring her view. The wind shifted, and the smoke billowed up. Sinclair stood in the street beyond the Blackhawk. His body signature registered normal, no fluctuations or reductions. He stood, mesmerized by a thick column of violet essence spiraling into the air.

“Jono?”

He turned, his face stressed with concentration. As if waking, relief swept over him. In long strides, he reached Laura and wrapped her in a hard embrace. “Are you okay?”

He smelled of smoke and gunpowder and sweat. The fear that vibrated off him—fear for her—almost made her cry. The last time someone had worried about her like that was too long ago to think about. Controlling her emotions, she nodded into the crook of his shoulder. As her head finally cleared, she broke the embrace. “Where is she?”