I checked the rearview and found that Cassiel and Luis Rocha were still behind us, keeping a steady, patient distance. I supposed they’d also received their orders to join up with the other Wardens, or else they had business of their own, though what could possibly be more important than the end of humanity was impossible for me to guess. I supposed it was a matter of perspective.
Suddenly, the Mustang gave a surprised little cough and sputter, and the engine . . . died. We had just crested a hill and gotten a view of the incredible display of Vegas lights shimmering below, like some opium dream about living jewels.
“Please tell me that we threw a rod or something,” I said as the Djinn glided the car off to the side. I heard the harsh blatting of Cassiel’s motorcycle catching up to us, and then it, too, cut off without warning. She coasted the bike to a halt behind us and set the kickstand, and she and Rocha jumped off and got ready for trouble.
The Djinn behind the wheel said, in Whitney’s voice, “Oh, hell, I should have known this wouldn’t go so easy.” She sounded deeply annoyed. “Everybody out of the car, right now. Get whatever you want to keep.”
I bailed out, and David followed me; we each grabbed a bag full of supplies, and I unzipped one bag and found the shotgun and pistol that I’d liberated from the motel where we’d lost Kevin. I loaded the shotgun with shells and tossed it to David without looking; he caught it the same way. “What are we shooting?” he asked, quite reasonably.
I loaded up my pockets with ammunition for the shotgun and the pistol, checked the clip, and shook my head. “No idea,” I said. “But I hate to be underdressed in the event of an attack—”
I didn’t have time to finish, because a silent missile dropped down out of the dark sky and sliced razor-sharp claws at my face. I’d been extending my Oversight out, not up, and the only warning I had of the huge bird’s approach was the sudden cool breeze on my face as it backwinged to slow itself. It shrieked as I fell backward, and I rolled, trying to avoid its next dive.
David turned on a lantern, and I saw the biggest damn bird I’d ever seen gliding low over our heads, angling for another strike. It was a freaking bald eagle, and it was utterly magnificent. I’d have been transported with its beauty if it hadn’t just taken a swipe at my eyes. The wingspan was enormous, probably at least six feet, and it was an expert hunter.
Cassiel suddenly stepped into the circle of light, lifted her arm, and made a sharp, whistling sound.
The eagle glided in, and for a second it looked as if it was going to land tamely on her leather-clad arm—not that the leather would be any kind of defense against those incredible claws. They’d punch through even the toughest hide like it was rice paper. Cassiel’s pale green eyes were watchful, totally focused on the bird as it made its approach.
She barely had time to dodge out of the way as it spilled air from its wings at the last second, altering its trajectory, and let out an ear-piercing shriek as it thrust its claws forward. It raked her leather jacket from neck to waist, shredding it, and with mighty flaps of its wings, it gained altitude again and disappeared into the sky.
“I can’t hold it,” Cassiel said. “And there are others coming. Many others.”
“Birds?”
“Large birds,” she confirmed. “Owls, eagles, hawks. And on land, other things. Bears, wolves, mountain lions. They will catch us. We have to run.”
I lifted the gun. She smiled a little.
“Do you think you have enough bullets for the world?” she asked. “Don’t be a fool. You can’t make a stand here.”
Cassiel was right, but we were still far out from the relative safety of the lights of Vegas. Out here, there wasn’t much—but down the hill about two miles there was some kind of hotel, clearly shut down, all lights off. “Down there!” I said, and grabbed up the bag I’d dropped. “Come on, let’s move!”
“Wait,” said Whitney’s voice from the car radio. “I can’t start this thing, but I can push it. Get in. Might as well ride.”
Cassiel shook her head. “I will take my motorcycle. I can coast it down the hill after you.”
“Not a great plan, Cass; that bird isn’t going to give you a pass just because you used to be a Djinn.”
“I know,” she said, not bothered at all. “But I’m not leaving the motorcycle. I like the motorcycle.”
“Well, I’m taking the car. Have fun,” Rocha said, and got in with me and David. Cassiel shrugged and straddled the bike, kicking up the stand, and pushed off. She must have had damn good balance, because the heavy machine hardly wavered at all.
Whitney’s push- method for the car worked just as well; it started slow, but picked up speed on the downhill grade, and we ate up the distance fast enough.
As we got closer I saw why the hotel was closed. Some kind of fire; the six-story pink stucco exterior was blackened around the windows and doors, and its plastic exterior wall-mounted sign was half melted. There were one or two cars, but they looked like derelicts and had signs of fire damage. The giant parking lot was deserted except for tumbleweeds and trash.
The road grade was evening out, and the car was slowing down. I made a command decision and said, “Whitney, how far can you push us?”
“All the way to where you want to go,” she said. “If you insist.”
“Get us to the Vegas strip. This doesn’t look like a very safe—”
Our tires blew out—at least two, from the separate bangs I heard, and the lurch of the frame first right, then left. Oh perfect. Somebody really didn’t want us getting to the other Wardens.
“I amend my earlier statement,” Whitney said.
“Can you fix the tires?”
“Sure,” Whitney said, “if I was there, sugar. I’m not.”
“I can,” David said quietly. “But it’s going to take some power. Are you up to it?”
I nodded, not sure I was, but willing to give it a shot. David closed his eyes and concentrated, and I felt the car lurch again as the tires melded themselves back together and reinflated.
They immediately blew out again. David flinched in surprise. “There’s something working against me,” he said. “Feel it?” I did. It was big, and inimical, and I didn’t like it at all. Whitney stopped the car. “Whitney, keep moving. We can run on rims.” No response. “Whitney?”
The radio stayed dead. The avatar just sat, staring blankly ahead, like a doll whose batteries had run down.
Suddenly, David looked sharply to his right, into the dark, and said, “We have to get out of here. Now.”
“We were doing that,” I said.
Luis Rocha didn’t waste time arguing; he popped open the door. “I’ll push,” he said. “Better than hanging around with a big target around our necks.”
The avatar wasn’t steering, though; he was just sitting, inactive, and David finally dragged him out from the wheel and shoved him into the backseat, then installed me as the driver. Ah, that felt strangely good, even with busted wheels. Rocha and David got behind the car and pushed. I thought it was odd that David didn’t do it himself, and odder still that they were working so hard at it. . . .
And then David stumbled and went to one knee. Rocha let loose of the car bumper and stopped to help him, and I instinctively hit the brakes in alarm.
That was our undoing.
The wheels sank into asphalt that suddenly felt like mud—thick, clinging mud. The front tipped down, and I realized that someone, something was softening the road underneath me. Miring the car in a modern-day tar pit.
“Out!” It was a white shadow at the window—Cassiel—and she didn’t wait for my agreement, just reached through the open window and dragged me unceremoniously through. She was sinking into the road, too, and slung me through the air to the side. She was stuck, but she pulled herself free with a wrenching effort and jumped for the safety of the gravel at the freeway’s shoulder. Luis Rocha, already there, caught her as she landed.