“Perhaps we should discuss what will happen tomorrow,” Nick suggested softly.
Jack was conscious of overwhelming thirst. Fatigue dragged at his legs and arms like millstones. Or maybe it was the armor he wore. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the images of the men he'd killed, as if they were painted on his eyelids. So he struggled to keep his eyes open, blinking against the dust and sweat and blood caked on his face.
He was looking for his comrades. He'd somehow lost them during his last one-on-one with a wizard who wouldn't go down. By the time he'd finished him, and yanked his sword free, he was alone among the trees, in a wood littered with bodies and watered with blood.
And so he moved silently through the woods, listening for the telltale clash of metal and magic that would direct him to the ongoing fight. But nothing. Even the birds had left that desolate place hours ago, understanding that it was no place for living things. It's a peculiarity of man—this lining up and marching toward death. The only other creatures who don't flee a killing field are the scavengers who come after the fact.
On all sides lay the detritus of terrible endings. Or heroic endings. The results looked the same.
Finally, he broke from the forest and onto a field pegged with ancient trees, many of them charred and splintered and broken, as yet unaware they were doomed, thrusting fistfuls of leaves into a brilliant blue sky. Stone buildings ringed the green on all sides.
The commons. And, everywhere he looked, bodies.
“Jack!” Ellen gently tugged at Jack's arm. He responded by swinging his fist at her, and she captured it between her two hands, forcing it down onto the pillow. “Jack, you're dreaming, cut it out!”
His body bucked and twisted as he tried to free himself. His red-gold hair was sluiced across the pillow, damp with sweat, and he muttered something unintelligible.
“Come on, Jack, you're waking up the whole house!” Man, he's strong, she thought, unable to resist a little professional envy.
Another near miss with that big fist, and she picked up a glass from the bedside table and sloshed the contents into his face.
He surged into a sitting position, spluttering, groping for his belt dagger. Good thing he didn't have it, or she might have been skewered before he came awake. She avoided his grasp, slid to the floor, and retreated a few yards away, watching him.
Finally, his bleary blue eyes cleared and focused on her. “What the … ?”
“You were dreaming,” Ellen repeated. “You've been screaming and yelling half the night. Nobody can sleep.”
He stared at her as if she were a ghost. It was unnerving.
“I was elected to come in and put a stop to it. You sure wake up grouchy. Don't take a weapon to bed, is my advice.”
“Ellen,” he whispered hoarsely, “I killed them. I killed them all.” He gazed down at his hands, turning them palms up, as if they were covered in blood.
“You killed who?” Ellen asked, but Jack didn't seem to hear her.
She came and sat on the edge of the bed. “Come on. It was just a dream.”
With that he threw back the covers and erupted from the bed, oblivious of his state of dress. Yanking his duffle bag from the closet, he emptied it onto the floor. He groped through the debris of clothes and came up with a chamois-wrapped package.
He sat down next to Ellen on the bed and ripped away the leather with trembling fingers. It was a mirror, its silver frame engraved with dragons and other fantastical images. He stared into the glass with a desperate intensity.
“Wow, that's cool,” Ellen said, combing her fingers through Jack's hair, which stuck out in all directions. “What does it do?” She leaned close so she could see. “Is it magic?”
What she saw was not Jack's face, but an image that looked like a battlefield. Only familiar.
“Is that no-man's-land?” she asked.
A lone warrior stood at the center of the field, the sunlight striking his red-gold hair, head bowed, cradling a comrade in his arms. And all around him lay the fallen—warriors from five centuries, surrounded by the gear and weapons appropriate to their time.
“That's you,” Ellen said. “What's it mean?”
Jack snatched the mirror away and flung it across the room. It smashed against the wall, and dropped behind the dresser.
Chapter Thirty-two Don't Look Back
Madison Moss had long ago mastered the gift of looking forward—of achieving that narrow focus on goals. Not that there wasn't a price. Sometimes she wondered if she was doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past, since she'd trained herself not to look back at it.
But Maddie was, first and foremost, a survivor. Beyond that, she'd protect the ones she loved. Whatever it took. That, at least, gave her direction.
So, for now, she could set aside wondering what had happened at Bryson Farms. Set aside the Chicago Institute of Art and Seph McCauley.
Set aside Warren Barbers threats.
It didn't take her long to pack. She stuffed two changes of clothes into a duffle. After some thought, she returned her father's gun to the wood box, made two sandwiches from the groceries she'd bought, and piled them in a six-pack cooler with a couple of cans of pop. She didn't mean to stop.
Finally, she pulled on blue jeans and a sweatshirt and boots over heavy socks. Clothes that said she meant business. She set the duffel by the door and laid her silver-studded denim jacket on top, then tied her hair back with a bandana.
Her plan was simple—she'd drive back to Trinity and go directly to St. Catherine's. Seph's barriers and wards wouldn't give her any trouble. With any luck, she'd take the Dragonheart and be gone before anyone knew she was there.
That was it. What would she do if she ran into Seph? She'd make something up.
She tried to think of what came after that, but drew a complete blank. She didn't trust Barber, but she had no clue how to get around him.
She heard the clatter of gravel against metal as a car pulled into the yard, followed by a door slamming.
Had Barber come back for some reason? The police? County child welfare? None of the possibilities were good. She thought about running out the back, but she'd still have to get past whoever it was to get down the mountain. So she knelt on the floor beside the wood box like a cornered animal, one hand gripping the loaded pistol.
She heard footsteps cross the creaky porch, but still jumped when someone banged on the door.
“Come!” she said, aiming the pistol through the wood box at the front door.
The visitor stood silhouetted against a rectangle of sunlight, squinting into the darkened room, then took a few hesitant steps forward.
“Madison?”
“Jason?” She let go of the pistol and sat back on her heels, her breath whooshing out in relief.
The light struck his face as he moved out of the doorway. He looked better than when she'd last seen him, when he'd left for Trinity. His coloring was restored, though he looked like he'd not slept for days. His hair had grown out in a haphazard way.
She wanted to grab hold of him, to somehow hand off her load of problems. But he might not be an ally. She had only one agenda—could have only one agenda. His might be different.
She stood, a little shakily, thinking furiously. “So. Not to be rude, but what are you doing back here?” she asked.
The question seemed to take him by surprise, as if he hadn't planned anything further than getting to Booker Mountain. “Well, we—um—that is, I wondered if you'd heard what was going on in Trinity.”
Barber had told her there was trouble, but she wasn't sure what kind, and besides, it wouldn't do to say she'd been chatting with Warren Barber. So she shook her head. “What's going on in Trinity?”
Jason's eyes lit on her duffle bag, sitting by the door. “Were you going somewhere?”
“Well.” She thought a moment, decided, and answered in a rush. “Actually, I was just getting ready to leave. To come back north. My …” She gulped, lost for a moment, then went on. “Someone else has the kids for awhile. So I thought…”
“Great,” Jason said. “That's great.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment, then he glanced toward the kitchen. “I drove straight through. Could I get something to drink?”
“Well. Sure.” She motioned him to the kitchen table and fetched him a cold pop from the refrigerator. All the while itching to be gone.
She set it on the table in front of him and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “You look better,” she said.
He grimaced. “Yeah. Well. I'm close to a hundred per cent. But a hundred per cent ain't that great.” He didn't say it like he was fishing for a compliment. “Damn Warren Barber, wherever he is.”
Yeah, she thought. Damn Warren Barber.
“So. How is Seph?” She couldn't help herself.
Jason's words came out in a rush, as if some internal dam had broken. “Bad. Look, Maddie. We need your help, but he won't ask for it. Trinity is under siege. The place is surrounded, and they say they'll attack tomorrow if we don't surrender.”
She blinked, momentarily diverted from her urge to be gone. “What do you mean, the town is surrounded? By who?”
“The Roses. And D'Orsay. They've put up this mammoth wizard wall all around the town that keeps everybody inside—Weir and Anaweir. Well, first, Mercedes put up a wall. Remember? Will and Fitch told us about it when they came. But that one just worked on the Weir.”
Seconds passed while she processed this. “Okay. You're saying there's two walls, one inside the other. And the outside one catches the Anaweir. So nobody can get in or out of Trinity? How can that be? It's not like no one would notice. What about the … the police?”
Jason dismissed the police with a wave of his hand. “What do the Roses care? The Anaweir authorities can't do anything. Trinity is sort of isolated to begin with. They've clothed the wall in confusion charms, so no one can find us. Phones, TV, radio don't work inside the wall. We might as well be in the Middle Ages.”