The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [216]
“Be what you were,” Travis said, and clenched his hand around the Stone.
A new light filled the room, soft gray rather than hard silver. When it dimmed, the pale one was gone. In its place was a slender, putty-colored creature. It lay on the tile floor, naked and dim, its thin arms coiled around its oblong head. Two dark blots marred the smooth gray skin of its chest. It gazed up at Travis, sorrow and pain in its ancient eyes. And gratitude. It shuddered once, then went still. The light faded from its eyes; the fairy was dead.
Travis lowered the Stone, and sickness filled him. He hadn't meant to kill the wraithling, but rather to heal it, to make it back into the fairy it was.
You did heal it, Travis. It was Jack's voice in his mind. But this is not its world. Its kind cannot live here, not without the drug the men of Duratek call Electria. Yet the fairy was grateful for what you did. It would not have chosen differently.
He understood. All the same, horror filled him.
“Travis?” said a faint voice. “Holy crap, is that really you, Mr. Wizard?”
Travis turned. Jay's eyes were open, gazing at him. Travis stepped over the lifeless body of the ironheart and moved to the side of the bed.
“It's me, Jay.”
“Hell's bells, so Marty was right. I thought you'd ditched us for good, but he said you'd come back.”
“And here I am. Like magic.” Travis forced himself to smile, despite what he saw.
There was a hole in Jay's chest. Blood oozed from the opening, though only a little, as if the wound had been cauterized by the wraithling's cold touch. Jay's heart was exposed; the organ beat with a spastic rhythm. Travis covered the hole with Jay's shirt.
“So where have you been, Mr. Wizard?” Jay's words were hard to hear; there was little breath behind them.
“Nowhere important.”
“Jerk. I figured as much.”
Travis wiped his eyes and laid a hand on Jay's bald head. His skin was cold.
“So guess who I saw today,” Jay said. “Old Sparky.”
Travis sucked in a breath. “You saw Professor Sparkman? Here in the Steel Cathedral?”
“That's right. And get this—the old professor was walking. It was like some freaking miracle in an old movie about lepers and orphans and crap like that. The angels . . . the angels must have cured him. They must have given him new legs.” Jay's forehead wrinkled. “Only they weren't really angels, were they?”
Travis said nothing. But Jay was wrong. Professor Sparkman hadn't been cured. He was dead, and Travis would never have another chance to talk to him about endings and beginnings, and about how you could destroy something and save everything at the same time.
“Marty,” Jay said, his voice barely audible. “You've got to promise to take care of Marty for me. That big goofball doesn't know anything about anything.”
“I promise,” Travis said, and he could no longer pretend that he wasn't crying.
Jay grinned, and despite the pain in his eyes, it was his same wicked, impish expression. “And you'd better collect your share of cans or I'll . . .”
There was no more. Jay's grin faded as his face went slack. His eyes stared upward, empty. Travis leaned over the bed. One more. One more person had died because of him. How many more would there be before it was over?
Maybe a whole world of people.
“Travis?”
He jerked his head up. Marty was looking at him with his placid brown eyes.
“Travis, help me. I can't get up.”
Marty was still alive. His shirt was buttoned up; the wraithling hadn't gotten to him yet.
Travis rushed to the other bed. His fingers fumbled with the straps, then they came free. Marty sat up. The tall man's face was as serene as ever.
“Jay is dead,” he said, looking at the smaller man.
Travis nodded. “Come on, Marty. I have to get you out of here, and there isn't much time.”
Marty nodded. Travis swung the other man's legs around and helped him stand. Then he turned and started for the door, Marty behind him.
Travis halted. A woman stood in the open doorway. She was petite, though too stern for prettiness. Her brown hair was