Page 71 of Night in a Waste Land

Two voices. Two expressions. Two entities controlling the body. Sharing.

The burn on his neck shivered all down his back, leaving painful gooseflesh in its wake.

The wineglass stem snapped neatly in two between Shubert’s fingers, and he stood, graceful and human, without any of a conduit’s usual blank efficiency of movement; it was showy, the way he unfolded himself, and buttoned his suit jacket, and stepped around the corner of the table to rest a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “What’s your name, soldier?” he asked Lance, pleasant and warm.

Lance felt the rest of his company crowd in behind him; heard a few muffled curses as they assessed the situation.

“Feeling shy?” Shubert asked, putting on an overdramatic pout.

Then his expression veered again, and the conduit’s voice rang out from his mouth: “He has an angel with him.”

“Does he really?” Shubert again. He smiled. “This should be fun.”

The guards’ eyes rolled back and they dropped.

“Logan, duck!” Lance shouted, just before a blue glow exploded through the room, and an invisible force shoved him back.

He toppled backward through his own company, all of them scattering like bowling pins. He twisted, got his feet under him fast, coming up with his gun aimed down the length of the table, to the place where Shubert had been – sites falling on the back of Morgan’s helmeted head.

“Shit! Morgan!”

She ignored him. Shubert stared down at her, his gaze flickering between human delight and conduit impassivity, changing second by second, and back again.

Logan was out of sight, at least. Under the table, Lance figured.

“Morgan!” he tried again.

A stirring on the floor caught his attention; then a groan: the guards snapping out of their fugue.

Movement beneath his elbow: Rose flashing past him, ducking low, keeping beneath the table as she raced down the long length of it.

Lance had never felt so helpless and stupid.

Morgan’s hand flew out, a fast, white flash like a bird winging up from the reeds. Straight toward Shubert’s chest. He caught her wrist – but bared his teeth, hissing, blue eyes flaring. Steam boiled up in the air between them.

Rose reared up behind him, unseen, and stabbed him with her hell dagger.

The blow hit him from behind. Had to slide between ribs and muscle and she wasn’t used to aiming for the heart in reverse like that.

It didn’t kill him, not in the way that Lance had seen time and again. But it had to hurt like a bitch.

Shubert dropped Morgan’s wrist and bent forward at the waist, bellowing. White steam curled up from his lips, and from his back, and his eyes went supernova.

Time to go.

Lance stepped forward and shot him at point-blank range in the temple with an obsidian round. The shot wasn’t loud, but the spray of brain and blood was as obscene and messy as ever, spattering against the wall paneling. He crashed sideways, and fell in a tangle of twitching limbs.

Behind him, he heard the suppressed gunshots of his company as they dispatched the waking guards.

Rose stood with the dagger dripping steaming blood, poised like she was ready for the kill shot.

“Rose,” he barked. “Is the kid under the table?”

She glanced that way, briefly, and nodded. “Yeah.” Looked back to Shubert. “Let me finish him.”

“Wait,” Morgan said, her voice a high, clear note like a bell. It echoed through the room, chiming off the walls, leaving a ringing hush in its wake.

Then the wall exploded.

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