Movement on the roof drew his attention there in time to see a dark figure slip from the shadows and slit the throat of the Kicker on guard.
"Did you catch that?"
Veilleur nodded. "One of the Kakureta Kao, I'd guess. I didn't think there were any left."
The figure seated himself in the center of the roof, drank something, and lay back.
"What's he up to?"
"Kuroikaze!" Veilleur grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. "He's sacrificing himself to create a Black Wind! This explains the Adversary's presence. He must have known this was coming."
"Well, if it kills everything, even bacteria, won't it kill him too?"
"Kill him? He'll suck it in. Depending on how far it spreads, he'll feed as he's never fed before. The fear, the misery, the hopelessness a Kuroikaze engenders will bloat him, but the aftermath…" He shook his head. "Remember the panic in the city after nine-eleven? This will be much worse. The Kuroikaze will be called a terrorist attack—and believe me, more than three thousand will die tonight—and since no one will know what caused it, no one will know how to defend against it. Homeland Security will look useless. Imagine the terror. Imagine the Adversary's joy." He turned to Jack. "You've got to stop that shoten."
"Me? How? I don't exactly have a sniper rifle handy, and that's one hell of a pistol shot from here."
"Then you'll have to go over there."
"Swell."
"I'd go myself, but I'm no longer up to it."
"Okay, let's just say I get there. How do I stop it?"
Veilleur looked at him. "There's only one way to stop a Kuroikaze: kill the shoten—the focus."
Jack nodded toward the rooftop. "Him?"
"Him."
Jack didn't feature entering that place and fighting his way to the roof for nothing.
"We don't even know if there's even going to be a Black Wind."
The words had no sooner passed his lips when something changed in the air above the Lodge.
A shadow had formed. No, shadow wasn't right. More like a cloud… a black cloud the size of a stretch limo, lying low and flat atop the roof. The blackest cloud Jack had ever seen, a black like no cloud should be, twisting and contorting as if boiling from within as it expanded. It had doubled in length since he'd spotted it and continued to grow as he watched.
Jack felt his saliva dry as every neuron in the self-preservation centers of his brain screamed at him to run.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"I've never seen one," Veilleur said, "only heard about them. But I can't imagine it being anything else."
The space around the Lodge darkened as the cloud seemed to be sucking the light from the air. Jack didn't know if it was real or imagined, but he thought he could see faintly glowing wisps of light streaming toward the ever-enlarging cloud.
The cloud now overhung the entire Lodge, rising as it continued to expand.
"The Kickers inside are beginning to feel the wind and its effects by now, losing strength, losing hope, losing the will to live. And soon they will simply stop living."
"How do you know so much about it?"
"It's a holdover from the First Age—Otherness inspired. You can read about it in the Compendium of Srem. But right now that cloud is going to keep expanding, and the winds will expand with it, until the shoten himself dies."
"How long will that take?"
"Depends on the vitality of the shoten. With a strong young man such as we just saw… long enough for the winds to reach Sutton Square and beyond."
The words jolted Jack. "You're a bastard, you know that."
"Only stating a fact."
Jack looked again at the cloud, feeling every instinct begging him not to go there.
"I'd better get moving then."
"Yes. And quickly. Keep moving as fast as you can. It's called The Wind-That-Bends-Not-the-Trees. Legend says it blows through the human soul. It's felt only by humans, but it sucks the life from everything. First it robs your resolve, steals any hope of success, stifles your will to go on, to live. Be prepared for that and fight it."
As Jack turned to go, wondering how he was going to pull this off, Veilleur thrust the katana at him.
"Take this."
Jack patted the Glock at the small of his back. "I'm okay."
Veilleur pushed it on him. "You may need it."
Jack couldn't see a downside so he grabbed it and ran.
"Did the lights just fade?" Darryl said.
Hank looked up, annoyed. Couldn't Darryl ever keep quiet?
"Looks the same to me."
He felt like crap. So crappy he couldn't muster the will to do much of anything. Not even sleep, though he was dead on his feet.
Somehow he and Darryl had wound up back in the basement. Neither had spoken much, just sat and stared at the wall or the floor or the backs of their eyelids. He was staring at the floor now and thinking.
Sometime during the next day, probably less, someone was going to discover that bloodbath on Staten Island, and thirty-some of his guys, most of them with Kicker tattoos, would be found among the bodies. The police and the media would want answers and they'd be all over him. He needed a story that would—
The light dimmed.
He looked up at Darryl, who said, "Don't tell me you didn't notice that."
Hank nodded. "Probably some sort of brownout going—"
A chill ran across his nape. He tried to shake it off but it turned to a prickling that moved across his shoulders and down his spine. The sudden breeze spread it all across his body.
Breeze?
Hank looked around. He hadn't heard the door open. It wasn't. It was closed tight. So where—?
The breeze picked up as the light dimmed further.
"Hank? What's happening, Hank?"
"I don't know."
"Where's this wind coming from?" He could hear terror edging into Darryl's voice. "We're in a basement, Hank. How do you get wind in a basement with no windows and the door closed?"
The light kept dimming. The overhead bulbs were burning but something seemed to be eating the light out of the air. And the wind—the wind seemed to be coming out of the walls. It swirled around him, making him feel as if he was at the center of a miniature tornado.
He glanced over at Darryl and saw him stagger to his feet. He held an arm across his face to shield his eyes from the blasts of air.
And not clean air. It had a damp feel and carried a musty odor, as if it were blowing from the floor of a black abyss that had been sealed since the dawn of man.
"I'm getting out of here."
Exactly what Hank was thinking. As he struggled to get up he spotted a pile of leftover Dawn flyers on a nearby table. The flyers should have been flying—swirling all around the room—but they simply sat there undisturbed.
What the—?
The light had faded to the point where he could barely make out Darryl. He watched him struggle toward the door against the wind and noticed his clothes weren't blowing. They hung on him without a ripple.
And then Darryl stopped fighting and dropped into a chair.
Hank could barely hear him above the roar of this ghost wind, but it sounded like he said, "What's the use?"
Hank realized that was just how he felt. No use trying—anything. All was lost, all was hopeless, and it would all be over soon.
Hank sat down to wait.