Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [69]
“Or a cop car, making his patrols. Get a move on, idiot!”
Her own car, boosted from a used car lot that night, was down the road several miles, tucked into the scrub on the shoulder. She had lugged her equipment from there, hiding it until now. A web-and-cloth utility belt, strapped down like a gunslinger’s holster, carried her tools. A slimline headset fit over her left ear, the antenna almost hidden in her hair. It was set to open receive, with a very limited field, meaning that she should be able to pick up anything transmitted within the house—like an alarm, or a phone call.
A quick check on the ties of her shoes, the Velcro closures of her suit hood fastened, and she was ready to go.
Hiking down the road, she had seen several deer flitting through the trees, foraging in the dusk light. And the memory of that sight had given her an idea for assault option number 3.
The push was the first skill she had manifested, back as a preteen. It had grown so gradually, so naturally, that she had been a full year into her training before she realized it was magic at all. Neezer had called it empathic coercion. Once she knew what she was doing, it felt uncomfortably like rape.
But with animals, she justified to herself, it was no worse than any other means of control.
Power was easy enough to draw down, once you knew what you were looking for. After that, it was all a question of focus. Wren sat cross-legged on the ground, her palms flat in the dirt, and concentrated.
“Ground, child. If you’re not grounded, it will snap you into cinders like some dumb bug.”
John Ebenezer’s voice in her head. The first lesson. The most important lesson. You couldn’t rush it. A deep breath in, then an exhalation, then in again, and she could reach inside and touch the core of energy stored within her, feeling the pulse of magic respond to her call. Visualizing it as a cleanly-rolled ball of glowing cord, she pulled gently at one strand, unrolling just enough to suit her need. The tip split off into a baker’s dozen individual threads, each one reaching out into the forest in front of her, searching for something of the right mass.
Like a fishing pole, one thread jerked, then began reeling itself in, enticing the creature at the other end to follow it.
Grass. Fresh grass. Sweet grass.
It came in closer, passing within a handbreadth of Wren as though it could neither see nor smell the human. A deer, full in the chest and shoulder, looking like a bow hunter’s wet dream. Okay, maybe a little more mass than she needed. She turned to watch it, keeping her hands firmly in touch with the grainy, reassuring solidity of the earth. Wait…wait…
When the deer had almost reached the stone wall, Wren closed her eyes, and flicked the end of the strand on the deer’s hindquarters.
Flee!
The deer, panicked, shied and ran away from the feel of the lash, side-slamming the wall with one powerful shoulder and falling away slightly stunned. It reeled for a moment, then bounded away, taking clear, powerful jumps that—at any other time—Wren would have been tempted to admire. But she was already moving, taking advantage of the momentary distraction to scramble up the wall, find tiny finger holds in the mortared niches, and vault herself over the dangerous top to land with a sold thud in the grass on the other side, falling flat on her face and praying that her suit would protect her from any visual scan of the area.
Any security system in this kind of setting, she reasoned, had to make allowances for wildlife. She hoped.
A moment passed, then five, each counted off in her head like a metronome counting out piano practices. Then another five. Almost off-schedule…time to risk it.
She raised her head, scanning the area. Nothing moved. Nothing sparked, or otherwise indicated watchers.
“Oh, screw this,” she said in disgust, hauling herself up and sitting back on her haunches. Either she’d get shot, or she wouldn’t.
She didn’t.