The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [99]
The Weirding was weak here, so woefully forlorn and weak. She had only a moment, no more, to grasp the threads, then it all fell apart in her hands.
It was enough. Grace’s eyes flew open.
“They’re everywhere. All around the motel. I can feel them … like wounds in the night.”
But there was more. She had felt something else. Another presence. Or was it presences, Grace? They were different than the dark blots she knew to be the creatures, gleaming gold, but she had only glimpsed them—it?—fleetingly, if at all. She tried to reach the Weirding again, but it was no use. The shadow blocked her way now, it would not be brushed aside so easily this time.
Travis’s voice was ragged, the hope draining from his face. “How many, Grace?”
“I can’t be sure. I was only able to touch the Weirding for a moment. But I’d say five, six. Maybe more.”
He nodded, the set of his jaw grim. She knew the conclusion he had made; she had reached it herself. That time in her room in Calavere, working together, she and Travis had just barely managed to kill a single feydrim. What hope did they have against a half dozen creatures that were as strong and as bloodthirsty?
Grace raised a hand. “Travis, what about your—”
“It’s no use, Grace. Not here.” He crossed his arms over his black T-shirt. “I think this world has forgotten the meaning of runes.”
Silence. Shouldn’t there have been the sounds of voices coming through the thin walls, the noise of cars in the parking lot? Travis paced to the window.
“It’s so still. I don’t see anything moving out there.”
“Maybe they’ve left,” Grace said. “Maybe this is our chance, before they come back.”
In a minute they were ready. Travis dug his stiletto from a drawer and gripped it in his right hand. Grace drew her own knife out of the sheath in her boot; the blade seemed pitifully small, but she would take it over nothing. She tightened her damp fingers around the hilt. Their plan was simple; it was all their fevered brains could come up with. Make it to the parking lot and get Erics’s gun. If they made it that far, they could recalculate. They pressed themselves against the door, listening. Nothing. Travis reached for the knob, started to turn it.
Crimson light welled forth, staining the air like blood. Grace stared.
“Your knife, Travis. It’s glowing.”
The red gem set into the hilt of his dagger shone with a fiery, pulsing light. He opened his mouth to speak.
Whatever words he uttered were drowned out by the sound of shattering glass as the room’s window exploded inward. The thing hurtled inside, a coiled ball of fury. It landed on the nearest bed, turned, and unfurled itself. Large, colorless eyes blinked once, then focused. It ducked its pointed head, almost as if bowing to them, then its mouth yawned open, baring teeth as jagged as the broken glass still tumbling to the carpet. Talons extended from curved fingers and toes, shredding the mattress.
Grace pressed against the warmth beside her. “Travis …”
He started to lift his stiletto, but there was no point. With a shrill, eerily human shriek, the creature stretched out its arms and sprang.
The air in front of Grace blurred, folded. Something gold flashed, and the creature’s trajectory abruptly changed. It flew sideways, long arms flailing wildly, then screamed as it struck the wall. The creature’s body broke cheap paneling and splintered wood as it hurtled into the adjacent room.
Air rippled like water, and a woman stood in what had been empty space a half second before. She was tall and golden-eyed. Her hair was dark, close-cropped, and her sinuous body was covered in sleek black leather.
Before either Grace or Travis could speak,