Kat Richardson - Labyrinth

“Harper, don’t—”

“He’s somewhere around broadcast tower two—maybe the park or the buildings nearby—and so is Goodall. You’ll know when you spot it. But don’t come too soon: The cops wouldn’t like what they’d see.”

I wasn’t being entirely truthful: I wasn’t going there to save Will or anyone else, not myself, not even my father. That would be nice, but I no longer had the luxury of pity, or even the fleeting sense of it, and that wasn’t what was moving me toward the towers on Queen Anne Hill. This had been my intention since London: to destroy that which had manipulated and ruined my life. Now the need was greater than me and mine. Gwen had been right to call me ruthless. In the dispassionate influence of the grid, compassion—perhaps humanity—had died in me. Only the job remained: Paladin of the Dead, Hands of the Guardian.

Of course I couldn’t just walk into the monster’s lair and give myself up to whatever he had in mind. I had given Goodall the slip, but that didn’t make me much safer here; Wygan meant me no good either. Another taxi dropped me off near the towers, and I walked through the shining Grey to the screen of shrubs near the old gym buildings, searching for a blind spot that was near enough to fall within the compass of the labyrinth. When I found it, I opened the ghostly door, but I didn’t step through.

I pulled the tin that had contained Simondson’s ghost out of my pocket and opened it up, dumping the last bright thread from it. “Come here.”

The troubled red mass that remained of him materialized with a crackle of sound. I stared into it, not bothering with the normal view of the world. In the middle of the red threads and black shadow of death, I could just spot a bit of bright blue energy. I thrust my hand into the cold light of him and groped for the burning red torment that struck through that blue luminescence, disregarding the howl of shock he gave as I did. When I caught the hard strand that I wanted, feeling it only remotely as it seared into my palm, I looked toward where his face would have been. To me it was the thinnest mist now, barely a face at all.

“Shut up. In a moment I’m going to pull this. Then you’ll be free. You might go immediately to wherever it is the remnants of the living go, or you might stay—I don’t know. But if you do linger, do me a favor: Go to the man who killed you and wreak screaming havoc.” I pointed toward the broadcast tower with my free hand. “He’s in there somewhere.”

I didn’t wait for a reply; I just yanked the scorching knot of energy loose and tore it apart. I saw the ghost streak away into the yellow wire frame of the broadcast tower, a blue comet trailing a cloud of blackness that turned suddenly and dove into the tangled skein of the earth below us.

I didn’t care which way Simondson had gone. I’d be there soon enough. I turned and stepped through the misty doorway into the labyrinth. Then I started running toward my father, down the ethereal corridors that twisted on themselves as I went, tangling behind me into snake’s coils and endless tesseracts of empty space. I kept to the left, always, just like the classical labyrinth, turning counterclockwise until I came to the center.

My father moaned, thinner and less material than ever, half-embedded in the wall. “You’re too late, little girl. There’s something loose already.”

“That’s just a friend of mine, making an entrance. You know they can’t start the wedding without the bride.”

“Perhaps you should run. . . .”

“Everyone keeps telling me that, but I’m done with it. You screwed up. You didn’t stop him. I will. But you, Dad . . . your job is to stop me . Before I disappear into this forever. Can you?”

He sobbed, his eyes hidden behind the opaque memory of his glasses. “Only—only if you die, little girl. And I don’t know what will happen to you; if you live, you’ll still be a Greywalker, but not like this.” He writhed and churned in the wall of tormented ghosts. “I can’t do this! I can’t let them hurt you: You’re my child!”

“You have to. Because I am your daughter. I always loved you, Dad, but you owe me, and I don’t want to be like this. If I die here, you can make me better. Come on, Dad. Be my guardian angel one last time.”

I didn’t give him a chance to waffle or worry. I reached past him, reached for the walls, for the ghost substance that hid this cell from the rest of the Grey, and plunged my hands into it. It was easier than the walls of Edward’s bunker. It felt softer than Carlos’s body and gave way with more ease, tearing into silver shards as the grid lamented and blazed bright through the falling walls of the labyrinth. The tumbling Grey flashed and burned, loosening the ghost of my father from his prison as the phantom structure crumbled away.

I emerged into a room I had never seen before but which was unpleasantly like Carlos’s cellar, marked in swirls and rings of magic, but these were indigo and black, looping together into three smaller circles within a larger one. At the center of the circles, a shard of suspended temporacline glittered like ice. Colored lights flickered in sconces at the corners of the room—lights to confuse and keep the Guardian Beast at bay. Behind me, I could feel the slipping, unraveling presence of my father as a passing breeze that could not last long. But he was there.

I took in the rest of the room at a glance. Will, waxy pale and bloodstained, huddled in a corner, weeping, with the colors of his aura a shattered mess of violence and fear streaked with smoke-black. Carlos was several feet away from Will, restraining a wasted and half-mad Edward who struggled weakly toward the terrified man with his eyes staring and fangs exposed as if the skin of his face had shrunken away. Wygan, his twisted white snake shape more prominent than ever, waited on the other side of the joined circles, closest to me and farthest from Carlos. Goodall was turning in tight arcs, swiping at the trailing coil of black that swirled around him in furious rushes. It seemed I had interrupted the preliminary stages.

Sometimes the solution to a problem is simple. I didn’t think this would be, but I would be a fool not to take an opportunity that presented itself. I strode to Wygan, drawing the HK from under my jacket and squeezing the cocking lever as I shoved the muzzle up under the Pharaohn’s ophidian chin. He started turning toward me. He was huge in this form and I had to reach high to press the barrel into his skin. The gun seemed laughably small and inadequate as I pulled the trigger.

The shot exploded against the ceiling, raining glass and concrete on us as the illusion of the massive snake collapsed. The smaller, corporeal Wygan rammed his fist into my chest, shoving me backward.

I fell into a crouch, my ribs aching and breathing difficult, and launched myself at him.

He whipped aside as quick as his illusory form. Then he snapped out a hand and caught me by the neck. Squeezing until my vision dimmed and my fingers went limp, he pulled me around to face him and shoved me to my knees. The grid roared in my head, calling for me. The pistol tumbled out of my grip and skittered across the floor.

He let up only enough to keep me breathing and the noise receded a little. “Dramatic entrance, Greywalker. I admit I did not expect it. You’re full of surprises.”

Without any apparent effort, he dragged me toward Goodall and snatched the fluttering remains of Simondson from the air. He shook the black shroud away and consumed the dimming blue light that remained of the ghost.

Panting with annoyance, Goodall glowered pure hate at me. Then he punched me and pushed me backward so I tumbled and sprawled into the closest circle. He slapped his hand down on the edge of the lines and spat out a word. The dark blue cage of the circle flashed upward, surrounding me. In the hum of the circle the grid rose in burning voices and smears of misty color.