“There—” Andre pointed at a building that appeared to be home to several small manufactories. “He took the smoke-form and went to roost in the elevator control house at the top. That is why I did not advise going against him by day.”
“Is he there now?” Diana peered up through the glare of sodium-vapor lights, but couldn’t make out the top of the building.
Andre closed his eyes, a frown of concentration creasing his forehead. “No,” he said after a moment. “I think he has gone hunting.”
She repressed a shiver. “Then it’s time to play bait.”
Diana found a parking space marked dimly with the legend “President”—she thought it unlikely it would be wanted within the next few hours. It was deep in the shadow of the building Andre had pointed out, and her car was dead-black; with any luck, cops coming by wouldn’t even notice it was there and start to wonder.
She hopped out, locking her door behind her, looking now exactly like the lone jogger she was pretending to be, and set off at an easy pace. She did not look back.
If absolutely necessary, she knew she’d be able to keep this up for hours. She decided to take all the north-south streets first, then weave back along the east-west. Before the first hour was up she was wishing she’d dared bring a “walk-thing”—every street was like every other street; blank brick walls broken by dusty, barred windows and metal doors, alleys with only the occasional dumpster visible, refuse blowing along the gutters. She was bored; her nervousness had worn off, and she was lonely. She ran from light to darkness, from darkness to light, and saw and heard nothing but the occasional rat.
Then he struck, just when she was beginning to get a little careless. Careless enough not to see him arrive.
One moment there was nothing, the next, he was before her, waiting halfway down the block. She knew it was him—he was exactly as Andre had described him, a nondescript Oriental man in a dark windbreaker and slacks. He was tall for an Oriental—taller than she by several inches. His appearance nearly startled her into stopping—then she remembered that she was supposed to be an innocent jogger, and resumed her steady trot.
She knew he meant her to see him, he was standing directly beneath the streetlight and right in the middle of the sidewalk. She would have to swerve out of her path to avoid him.
She started to do just that, ignoring him as any real jogger would have—when he raised his head and smiled at her.
She was stopped dead in her tracks by the purest terror she had ever felt in her life. She froze, as all of his other victims must have—unable to think, unable to cry out, unable to run. Her legs had gone numb, and nothing existed for her but that terrible smile and those hard, black eyes that had no bottom—
Then the smile vanished, and the eyes flinched away. Diana could move again, and staggered back against the brick wall of the building behind her, her breath coming in harsh pants, the brick rough and comforting in its reality beneath her hands.
“Diana?” It was Andre’s voice behind her.
“I’m—all right—” she said, not at all sure that she really was.
Andre strode silently past her, face grim and purposeful. The man seemed to sense his purpose, and smiled again—
But Andre never faltered for even the barest moment.
The smile wavered and faded; the man fell back a step or two, surprised that his weapon had failed him—
Then he scowled, and pulled something out of the sleeve of his windbreaker; and to Diana’s surprise, charged straight for Andre, his sneakered feet scuffing on the cement—
And something suddenly blurring about his right hand. As it connected with Andre’s upraised left arm, Diana realized what it was—almost too late.
“Andre—he has nunchuks—they’re wood,” she cried out urgently as Andre grunted in unexpected pain. “He can kill you with them! Get the hell out of here!”
Andre needed no second warning. In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Leaving Diana to face the creature alone.
She dropped into guard-stance as he regarded her thoughtfully, still making no sound, not even of heavy breathing. In a moment he seemed to make up his mind, and came for her.
At least he didn’t smile again in that terrible way—perhaps the weapon was only effective once.
She hoped fervently he wouldn’t try again—as an empath, she was doubly-vulnerable to a weapon forged of fear.
They circled each other warily, like two cats preparing to fight—then Diana thought she saw an opening—and took it.
And quickly came to the conclusion that she was overmatched, as he sent her tumbling with a badly bruised shin. The next few moments reinforced that conclusion—as he continued scatheless while she picked up injury after painful injury.
She was a brown-belt in karate—but he was a black-belt in kung-fu, and the contest was a pathetically uneven match. She knew before very long that he was toying with her—and while he still swung the wooden nunchuks, Andre did not dare move in close enough to help.
She realized, (as fear dried her mouth, she grew more and more winded, and she searched frantically for a means of escape) that she was as good as dead.
If only she could get those damn ’chucks away from him!
And as she ducked and stumbled against the curb, narrowly avoiding the strike he made at her, an idea came to her. He knew from her moves—as she knew from his—that she was no amateur. He would never expect an amateur’s move from her—something truly stupid and suicidal—
So the next time he swung at her, she stood her ground. As the ’chuk came at her she took one step forward, smashing his nose with the heel of her right hand and lifting her left to intercept the flying baton.
As it connected with her left hand with a sickening crunch, she whirled and folded her entire body around hand and weapon, and went limp, carrying it away from him.
She collapsed in a heap at his feet, hand afire with pain, eyes blurring with it, and waited for either death or salvation.
And salvation in the form of Andre rose behind her attacker. With one savate kick he broke the man’s back; Diana could hear it cracking like green wood—and before her assailant could collapse, a second double-handed blow sent him crashing into the brick wall, head crushed like an eggshell.
Diana struggled to her feet, and waited for some arcane transformation.
Nothing.
She staggered to the corpse, face flat and expressionless—a sign she was suppressing pain and shock with utterly implacable iron will. Andre began to move forward as if to stop her, then backed off again at the look in her eyes.
She bent slightly, just enough to touch the shoulder of the body with her good hand—and released the Power.
Andre pulled her back to safety as the corpse exploded into flame, burning as if it had been soaked in oil. She watched the flames for one moment, wooden-faced; then abruptly collapsed.