The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [189]
“Stop!”
It was Travis.
Mitchell slammed on the brakes, and Grace nearly flew into the front seat. Only Mitchell’s thick shoulders stopped her.
Davis eyed the truck’s mirror. “We’re going to have company soon. This is not necessarily a good place to stop.”
“Look, Grace. Do you see it?” Travis pointed to the back of the eighteen-wheeler they had just been about to pass. “Low on the left door.”
She saw them: three horizontal lines had been drawn with a finger in the dirt on the door.
“It’s just graffiti.”
“No.” His voice was soft. “No, you’re wrong.”
He reached into his shirt, drew something out. It was a piece of bone on a leather string. Etched into the bone were three parallel lines:
With a jolt of energy, Grace understood. “It’s a rune.” He nodded. “The rune of hope.”
“What’s it mean?” Davis said, frowning.
Vani opened the door of the pickup. “It means their friend is in this vehicle.”
“We’ll be needing those rifles,” Mitchell said.
Grace brushed broken glass from one of the rifles, then wrested it from the gun rack. Travis grabbed the other, and together they piled out of the pickup.
“Stop now and drop those guns,” a deep voice said.
Grace froze next to Travis, Mitchell, and Davis.
The man stood twenty feet away, the bulging muscles of his arms hard as he thrust the sleek pistol out before him. A trickle of blood ran from a cut on his cheek. With his small eyes fixed on them, the guard released the pistol with one of his hands and adjusted the skewed audio headset he wore, bringing the microphone close to his mouth.
“I’ve got them contained,” he said. “We’re behind transport three. I need a—”
His words ended in wet gurgle as his head twisted to one side. There was a crack, and the guard went limp, his heavy body crumpling to the ground. Both Davis and Mitchell stared at the dead man, their faces pale. Even before the air rippled, smoothed, and her eyes caught up with the too-swift motions of the other, Grace knew what—no, who—she would see.
Vani wiped her hands on her leather pants. “There are more guards in the frontmost part of this vehicle.”
A bullet whizzed not far above Grace’s head. Together, the five pressed themselves against the back of the truck, out of view of the front cab. Slowly, Davis peered around one side, Mitchell around the other.
In stereo, rifle blasts thundered on the air. A second later came the sounds of two doors shutting.
“I think our friends decided they’d rather stay in the cab for a while,” Davis said, his grin back at full strength.
“Keep watching that direction,” Vani said. “I will guard the rear of the vehicle.”
The air shimmered, and she was gone.
Davis let out a whistle. “How the hell does she do that?”
“Keep your eyes on your man, Davis,” Mitchell said.
“I thought you were my man.”
“You know what I mean.”
The two cowboys held their rifles ready, keeping watch on the front of the truck. Grace could hear booted feet against asphalt. Somewhere came a faint, gurgling cry of pain, quickly cut short. Vani was out there somewhere.
“We’ve got to open these doors,” Grace said.
Travis tried the handle. It didn’t move; the truck was locked. Panic flooded Grace. What were they going to do?
Before she could speak, Travis pressed both his hands against the doors. He bowed his head, eyes shut, jaw clenched.
“Urath,” he murmured.
Grace waited, but nothing happened. It was no use. Just like the Weirding, his rune magic was too thin, too weak here on Earth. Travis staggered away from the truck.
The doors swung open.
She stared. “But I thought …”
He held up his right hand, wonder on his face. On the palm, a symbol glowed as if it had been drawn on his skin with molten silver: three crossed lines.
“Something’s different,” he said. “My power—it’s stronger here.”
“What’s going on back there, Travis?” Mitchell said, eyes still fixed forward.
He glanced at Grace; she nodded.
“We’re going in,” he said.
Travis put a boot on the rear bumper, then climbed into the back of the truck. A hand reached down for Grace. She took it and climbed in after