The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [215]
The silver light grew brighter. Instinct screamed and snarled inside him, a frightened animal desperate to flee. Travis edged past the desk. As before, doors lined the corridor, but they were made of glass, and the rooms beyond were not offices. They contained steel operating tables, IV racks, trays of scalpels, clamps, and forceps, and machines whose purposes he could not guess. He thought of Grace and wished she was here, but she was a world away.
All of the operating rooms were dim and empty, all except the last. Light streamed through the glass door. Travis drew even with it and peered inside.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light. This room was larger than the others. There were two of the steel beds, and he could see a form—a man—lying on each one. The men were held down with straps. One of them was short and pudgy, the other tall, gangly.
Travis's eyes adjusted; terror turned his body to ice. The men strapped to the beds were Jay and Marty.
Two other beings stood in the room. One looked like a man, but Travis knew that was only illusion, that the human-shaped husk was a shell that housed a thing of evil powered by a heart of iron. His dead eyes gave it away. The ironheart wore a white lab coat; in his gloved hands was something dark and heavy the size of a fist.
The other being in the room was a wraithling. Its spindly body was a shadow wreathed in a silvery corona, and its eyes were dark jewels. It drifted closer to one of the beds—the one in which Jay was strapped down.
The little man squirmed, straining against the straps. “Let me go, you freaking weirdos! I told you, all we were doing was looking for a little food, a little charity. Let me go!”
His voice was muffled by the glass, but the terror in it was clear. The wraithling moved closer. Jay turned his head, looking over at the other bed.
“Come on, Marty, wake up,” Jay moaned. “Wake up, dammit. You've got to get us out of here, you big oaf.”
Marty lay still, his eyes shut. Had they drugged him? Travis had to get them out of there. He reached for the iron box—then froze. If he opened it, Duratek would know where he was. They would keep him from reaching the gate.
“Oh, God, no!” Jay choked. “Don't let that thing touch me. Please.” His shirt was open. The wraithling reached a slender hand toward his chest.
The ironheart smiled. “Don't be afraid. It will only hurt while you live. Once the Angel takes away your weak, mortal heart, I will make you strong.”
Jay went limp, his face ashen, all the fire, all the anger gone from it. He stared at the wraithling hovering over him. Its spindly fingers brushed his skin, then dug in.
Jay screamed. The sound broke Travis's paralysis. He opened the box, gripped the Stones, and shouted a rune.
“Reth!”
The ironheart turned just as the door shattered and glittering shards flew into the room. Splinters of glass sliced across his face and hands, cutting skin to ribbons. He howled and stumbled back. The lump of iron slipped from his bloody fingers. Travis snatched it up and threw it at the wraithling with all his might.
The Pale One screamed—a sound at the edge of hearing. It fled away from Jay, its fingers fluttering up to its breast. There was a dark hole in the corona of light that surrounded it. The Little People could not bear the touch of iron, and nor could this thing, for it had been a fairy before the Necromancers corrupted it.
Though wounded, the wraithling was not slain. Neither was the ironheart. The dead man rushed toward Travis. His face was a bloody ruin; strips of flesh hung from his hands.
“Dur!” Travis said.
The man lurched once. A gurgling sound escaped his lips. Then the lump of iron that served as his heart burst from his chest. With a flick of his hand, Travis sent it spinning through the air at the wraithling. Again the fey being cried out. It slunk back against the wall.
Now, while the thing was weak, this was his chance. He drew one of the Stones from his pocket. Sinfathisar—he knew it by its cool, familiar touch. A hungry light