I felt a hand on my arm and glanced up to see Slate. His eyes glittered. “Let’s move, seer boy,” he said. “You’re with me.”
Briefly it occurred to me that if Slate wanted to take a shot at me, now would be the perfect time to do it. Oh well, I’ve already had two Keepers try to backstab me this evening. Lightning doesn’t strike three times in the same place, right? I took a deep breath, then stood up and ran for the building.
It caught Slate off guard—I think he’d been expecting to have to drag me. I left him behind, outdistancing him in the mist, and suddenly I was running alone. The mist cloud blocked sight and muffled sound, and for a brief moment it didn’t seem as though I was in a battle at all. The sounds of gunfire were faint and distant, and there was no one close enough to threaten me. It was almost peaceful.
Then somewhere above, the machine gunners shifted fire, and in a scattering of the futures ahead of me I saw myself torn apart. Okay, not so peaceful. I slowed to a jog, twisting sideways, sensing the bullets snap past. Behind me I heard someone lose their breath in a gasp, followed by a thud. And then all of a sudden the walls of the White Rose estate were looming up, flower beds under my feet. I’d made it through the gauntlet of fire, and I was too close for the gunners on the roof to reach me. There was a blackened hole in the outer wall where one of Landis’s fireballs had struck; I could still feel heat radiating from the stone. I went through . . .
. . . and came out of the mist into a plain wooden corridor, face to face with two men in shirts and jeans. Both were carrying guns but they weren’t aiming them at me, and before they could react I pointed at them. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you with Vihaela?”
Confusion is the ally of the prepared. The two men paused, looking at each other. I didn’t give them time to react. “Order is to pull back to the upper floor. Move!”
“But they told us—” one of the men began.
Slate came out of the mist behind me, black energy hovering at his hands. I dived for cover. The men hesitated—first mistake—and levelled their guns at Slate—second mistake. They didn’t get the chance for a third. Black lightning cracked and I heard the thump of bodies hitting the floor.
I got to my feet and glanced at what was left of the two men. Slate hadn’t used nonlethal spells this time. “Which way?” Slate demanded.
“Working on it.” My future selves were moving through the mansion, running and dodging and dying.
Caldera and Trask came through behind us, trailed a moment later by two more Council security men. No more followed; the rest of the team had been lost to fog or gunfire. They spread out, securing the corridor. Caldera covered one side, while Trask set up on the corner to the right.
I kept flicking through the futures ahead. With the interference from Slate and the fighting, it was slow going. Right side was going to run us into trouble. Left seemed clearer. Upstairs was clearer still. Now where was Haken . . . ?
“Well?” Slate said.
“Shh,” I said absently. I’d just caught a trace of Cerulean. So he’s still here. No Vihaela, though. Maybe if I looked for her first . . .
Gunfire sounded to the right, followed by a scream. I heard the rushing sound of a water blast and the firing cut off abruptly. “Get on with it!” Slate snarled.
“You rush a diviner, you get crappy divinations,” I said without opening my eyes. Left route wasn’t working out. There was a small oasis of calm on the first floor and I split my perceptions, pushing myself to track multiple paths at once. Was that it?
Another burst of gunfire came from the right, and Slate and Trask’s response fragmented my path-walk. There. I’d only had a glimpse but I was sure it was him. “Found him,” I said. “First floor. This way.” I walked across the corridor and pulled open a door: it led into a small staircase, winding upwards.
Slate didn’t hesitate. “Caldera, Trask!” he shouted. “Moving out!” Then he hurried after me.
The sounds of fighting died away as we jogged up the stairs. The battle was still going on outside, and there were a lot of enemies all around us, but Trask’s fog spell had spread enough confusion that most of the White Rose defenders hadn’t yet figured out that they had intruders. From above I could still hear the staccato beat of the machine guns, but as we reached the first floor there was a tremor and a thud, and one of the guns stopped firing. Probably Landis’s work. I hoped Luna was staying with him and hadn’t done anything crazy.
The first floor of the White Rose estate was more comfortably furnished, and I had a brief impression of rugs on the floor and mirrors on the walls. The path I’d planned out splintered into combat around the next corner, and I changed plans on the fly. There was a door two steps away, with a bolt on the outside. “In here,” I said quietly over my shoulder to the others, pulled the door open, shut it behind them once they were in, then held a finger to my lips when Caldera tried to talk. She, Slate, and Trask were the only ones still with me; we’d lost the security men somewhere along the way. We stayed quiet, and a moment later, I heard footsteps go running past outside.
The room we’d entered was a bedroom, decorated in pink and white. A muted yellow light cast a soft glow, illuminating a hanging mobile. Stuffed animals were piled on an armchair, and a small table held a reading lamp and a notebook with loopy writing on the cover that read My Diary. The bed was frilly and fluffy, with more stuffed animals propped up against the headboard, and a small girl was sitting up in it. She was dressed in a white nightie and couldn’t have been more than nine years old. “Are you my daddy?” she asked me.
I stared at her. Her eyes were blue, without any sign of fright, or worry . . . or anything. I looked into the futures and felt a chill. The girl’s futures were solid lines, reacting to our input without any initiative or variation. Just like a construct.
“I’ve been good,” the girl said.
I felt my skin crawl. I turned and headed for the other side of the room, where a connecting door was half hidden by a wardrobe.
“Jesus,” Slate said. He was staring at the girl.
“Are you my daddy?” the girl asked.
“Guys,” I said, not looking at the bed. “Come on.”
Slate was staring at the girl, but Trask and Caldera followed me. “Door’s locked,” I said. A muffled shout sounded from somewhere off to the left, followed by gunfire. “Keep it quiet.”
Trask nodded, and I stepped out of the way. The big man put a hand to the door handle: there was a blue glow and the handle, the locking mechanism, and a six-inch circle of door puffed into dust. Trask pushed it open. “Slate,” I said over my shoulder. Slate tore his gaze away from the girl and followed. The girl watched us go with dead eyes.
The next room was panelled in stone, with a medieval theme. A fire burned in a fireplace, and oil lanterns were mounted on the walls. At the centre was what looked like an old-fashioned version of a medical examination bench. A side table held a tray of gleaming metal implements that could have been dentists’ tools, if you didn’t look too closely. I was glad Luna wasn’t here to ask questions. None of us spoke; we moved through and out.
Another door, another corridor. Someone almost ran over us as he came around a corner. He wasn’t dressed like one of the White Rose soldiers, but in a business suit: one of their clients, maybe. Slate stunned him with an enervation spell and we kept moving . . .