For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [52]
He spoke sharply, unthinkingly.
“Mother?”
Chapter Nine
One of the bundled figures spun in its chair to gape at him. Her eyes were wide with surprise as well as with a warning Flinx ignored. She started to rise from her seat.
The rest of the group gazed at the young man standing across the room. One of the younger men put a hand on Mother Mastiff’s shoulder and forced her back into her chair. She promptly bit him. The man’s companion pulled something out of a coat pocket and started toward Flinx. The group’s stunned expressions, brought on by Flinx’s unexpected appearance, had turned grim.
Flinx searched the floor and walls nearby, found the switch he was hunting for, and stabbed at it. The lights in the dining room went out, leaving only the dim daylight from the far windows to illuminate the room.
What a fantastic Talent he possessed, he thought as he dove for cover. It had reacted sharply to Mother Mastiff’s presence—after he had all but tripped over her.
The room filled with screams from the regular guests, mixed with the curses of those Flinx had surprised. He did not try to make his way toward the table where Mother Mastiff was being held; he had been through too many street lights for that. Keeping the layout of the dining room in his mind, he retreated and dropped to a crawl, taking the long way around the room toward the table in an attempt to sneak behind her captors. Three had been seated at the table with her, plus the two who had arrived later. Five opponents.
“Where is he—somebody get some lights!” Very helpful of them, Flinx mused, to let him know their location. He would have to make use of the information quickly, he knew. Soon one of the guests, or a lodge employee, would have the lights back on, robbing him of his only advantage.
A sharp crackling richocheted around the room, accompanied by a brief flash of light. One of the other guests screamed a warning. Flinx smiled to himself. With everyone hugging the floor, that ought to keep the lights off a little longer.
A second bolt split the air at table level, passing close enough to set his skin twitching. Paralysis beam. Though Flinx took some comfort from this demonstration of his opponent’s intent not to shoot to kill, he did not stop to think why they might take such care. The kidnappers continued to fire blindly through the darkness. With those nerve-petrifying beams filling the room, no employee was likely to take a stab at a light switch.
Grateful once more for his small size, Flinx kept moving on his belly until he reached the far wall. At the same time, the random firing ceased. Imagining one of his opponents feeling along the walls in search of a light switch, Flinx readied himself for a hurried crawl past the glow of the fireplace. Then someone let out a violent curse, and he heard the sound of chair and table going over very close by. Flinx’s hand went to his boot. He rose to a crouching position, waiting.
Again, he heard the sound of stumbling, louder and just ahead. He put his hand on a nearby chair and shoved it into the darkness. A man appeared in the glow from the fireplace, and a flash enveloped the chair. Flinx darted in behind the man and used the stiletto as old Makepeace had instructed him. The man was twice Flinx’s size, but his flesh was no tougher than anyone else’s. He exhaled once, a sharp wheeze, before collapsing in a heap. Flinx darted forward, out of the illuminating glare of the fire.
“Erin,” a voice called uncertainly, “you okay?” Several new flashes filled the air, striking the stone around the fireplace where Flinx had stood moments earlier. If the intent of those shots was to catch Flinx unaware, they failed; on the other hand, they did force him to hug the floor again.
Moments later, the lights winked back on, shockingly bright. Flinx tensed beneath the table that sheltered him, but he needn’t have worried. The party of travelers had fled, along with the remaining paralysis-beam wielder and Mother Mastiff.
Flinx climbed to his feet. The other guests remained cowering