Logan had two choices. He could lie about his connection with the compound and hope the men confronting him believed him, or he could tell them the truth and hope they let him pass anyway. They were all looking at him by now, most of them with their weapons raised. It was a dangerous moment; everyone was on edge with the wailing horn and a heightened sense of something bad about to happen.
"I don't have a unit," he said. "I don't live here. I'm only visiting. I was invited to watch the execution of the boy and the girl." "Invited to watch?"
The speaker studied him. "By whom?"
Logan could not remember the name of the compound leader. He shrugged. "By the leadership."
"Hey, weren't you at the gates earlier, asking to see the boy?" one of the others asked.
Logan gritted his teeth. "I knew him a long time ago. I knew his family. I brought a message from them."
No one was saying anything, but he could tell from the looks on their faces that they didn't believe him. If anything, he was making things worse. But he didn't have much choice. He couldn't let them take him prisoner.
"I am a Knight of the Word," he told them. "I came for the reasons I told you whether you believe me or not. In either case, I don't belong in here; I belong out on the streets. Your compound is in danger. There's an invasion force in the harbor. Instead of standing around, we should be down on the docks trying to stop it."
"Don't be trying to tell us our job!" the first speaker snapped at him angrily. "We don't answer to you?"
"Lower your weapon, please," Logan told him calmly.
People were slowing down as they saw the confrontation that was taking place, sensing that something was wrong. In a moment, the pas–sageways would be so clogged with people stopping to watch that there would be no place for Logan to run. And he already knew he was going to have to run if he was to escape.
"If you know something about the boy, you might know something about what happened up on the walls," the speaker declared, his weapon still leveled at Logan's midsection. "I think you'd better tell all this to our commander, and he can decide what to do with you."
The black staff was hot in Logan's clenched fist, held upright before him, a shield that nothing could penetrate. Already, its magic was coursing through him, as hot and fluid as his blood. The runes carved into the staff’s hard wooden surface were beginning to glow softly.
"I don't have time for this," he told the speaker. "Let me pass."
The weapons stayed pointed at him, and he heard the click and snap of released safeties and cocked hammers. Stupid, he thought, thinking of both these men and himself
His arm came up in a quick sweep, the magic already deflecting the bullets that were being fired at him, at the same time sending his at–tackers flying backward in sprawling heaps, the wind knocked out of them. He turned and ran through a crowd that scattered at his ap–proach, abandoning any idea of trying to leave through the front gates, heading instead for the tunnels that had brought him in. A few others tried to stop him, but he brushed them aside easily, barely slowing, gaining the shelter of the stairwell and scrambling down.
In seconds he had reached the lower levels and was charging along the corridors that led to the tunnels. He could hear shouts and cries be–hind him, the sounds of a pursuit being mounted. He could hear the pounding of feet coming down the stairs after him. He didn't slow. He wished he could have had a chance to look around the front gates, to see if there was any trace of Hawk and Tessa. But that wouldn't be pos–sible now. Besides, he knew in his heart that whatever had happened to them wasn't the sort of occurrence that left clues. Magic like that–and he was convinced by now that it was magic–made a clean sweep of everything it touched.
He gained the entry to the underground tunnels and passed through, slowing now as a concession to the darkness, using the glow of the runes off the staff to guide him. The gloom was thick, but not complete, and his eyes adjusted quickly. He moved through the tunnels as swiftly as he could, but he had to take enough time to make certain he did not turn down the wrong branch. He became aware that no one was following him. Given up, he mused, to pursue more important matters. Like find–ing a way to stay alive.
At the end of the tunnel and the door leading out into the bus shel–ter, he stopped to listen, to reassure himself that no one lay in wait. Then he slipped outside, climbing the steps to where he could look around and see what was happening.
The open spaces surrounding the compound were filled with men pouring through the gates and moving down the streets toward the wa–terfront, all heavily armored and armed. A pair of ancient mobile Scor–pion attack vehicles were chugging along behind them, their huge cannons pointing the way. He hadn't seen one of those since his days with Michael, had thought them all extinct. They fired armor–piercing shells and starburst canister alike. They could sink any of the approach–ing boats with a single shot, but it would take an awful lot of single shots to make a difference.
Out on the open waters of the bay, the booming of the drums con–tinued, a steady throbbing in the night.
He watched the activity for a moment, all of it heading away from him, and then slipped from the shelter and moved back across the rubble–strewn ground to where he had told Panther to wait for him. The black staff throbbed softly in his hand, and the heat of the magic still roiled within him. He felt hot and cold at the same time, a response to the mix of emotions warring within him. At least he hadn't been forced to hurt anyone. He wished just once the people in the compounds would listen to his warnings about the demons and once–men. It wasn't his problem, but he wished it anyway. It was hard enough tracking down and destroying the slave camps without knowing that those he set free could easily be replaced by the men and women and children of the compounds, fresh fodder for the Void's extermination machine.
He hated even thinking about it. A world turned mad and its peo–ple turned victims. But maybe the boy Hawk, a gypsy morph born of wild magic, could make the difference.
He reached the edge of Pioneer Square, expecting to find Panther, but there was no sign of him. He called his name softly, knowing that the compound inhabitants probably couldn't hear him if he screamed it, but cautious nevertheless. No answer. He looked around. Nothing moved.
He stood alone in the empty street, wondering what to do next.
CHAPTER TWO
SPARROW CROSSED THE ROOF of their building in a rush, intent on reaching the stairs and getting down to the street as quickly as she could manage it. The moment she realized what the lights on the water were, she realized as well the danger they were all in. It would take the invaders awhile to get ashore, but as soon as they did they would go hunting for strays like her. She had heard the stories from her mother and seen the results. The hunters of humans were mad things, beasts with claws and teeth and hair, predators. Street kids were a favorite prey. The other Ghosts had to be warned.
But just as she reached the stairwell and was preparing to start down, she heard footsteps coming up. They were heavy and rough, and no attempt was being made to hide their approach. She stopped where she was, listening. The footsteps did not belong to the Ghosts or even to the Knight of the Word. Or to anything human, she added quickly.
She backed away from the opening, both hands tightening around the slim metal length of her prod. Then she heard deep, guttural voices from the darkness below, voices harsh enough to override even the heavy tread, and she froze.