Lady in Flames Read Online Free Page B
wanes with the understanding that I might be in danger of bodily harm. Can I fend off several teenagers? Four or five of them? I have no means to defend myself.
I strain over my shoulder once more to see movement behind a tree—a black, darting figure. I can’t outrun them, however many there are. My joints are already burning and ragged under the stress with which I command them.
A stinging rasp wheezes inside my chest. My eyes water in their own response to anxiety and the bitter air. There’s not much left in me now, and I still have so far to go.
A few houses ahead, a single bulb burns over a side door. Its glow trickles into the driveway; a red truck sits just beyond. This is the most inviting thing I can make out in my hurried scramble. Surely someone is home.
I peg my way toward the driveway, praying to the Lord that somebody will answer my knock.
Bound by Duty, Bound by Souls
February 26 th , 2002 8:51 PM
Inside the Driver’s Camaro
The beauty of a super-physical body is that I can splice myself into the physical world with varying degrees of substance. Someone might see me saunter past—just another motorist on a darkened road. Or I might blend in and out of someone’s conscious thought, sidestepping the triggers that signal they’re not alone.
The mechanics of how it works isn’t important, and the car might as well be an appendage. I’m a mirror reflecting the surface of something that runs deeper than sheet metal and flesh, but the physical world is a concrete place. It’s traversed by the simple and familiar.
The driven wind picks up now and then, sending freight train gusts between narrow passages whether they be of bark or brick. Winter rests heavy upon the earth, immovable, though I can’t feel it.
An hour ago I gave up the chase for Grimley—a mischievous child who stole a soul from me—but just for now. He hides somewhere in the Upper Territory with his new plaything, oblivious to any sense of order or direction.
There’s no use in holding this against him; he’s only a wanderling. Most have some whimsical way about them seeing as they are an aborted, half-formed semblance of what they would have been had they been born.
Tonight the center of Halgraeve, come to life with a call to urgency, draws me in as a casual observer. The squeal of tires and slamming doors rings throughout the square in the center of town, breaking the muted calm.
Peace now ousted, a rotund man in a parka stomps away from his van, belligerent. He vows his intent in an obscenity-laced tirade, kicking over a garbage receptacle to keep onlookers at their distance.
Following behind is a stick figure in a dusky overcoat. A cap covers his bobbing skull, sloppy feet kicking up slush. He tips his head at a few smokers on the sidewalk with a knowing grin.
They both enter a low-slung bar called Lady Luck.
Parked in a secluded corner of the square, I don’t forget I’m bound by an obligation nearly as old as humanity. The methods first used by Abel, passed down to each member of the Fold, stand as my code of ethics.
I abide by these with an understanding that the world isn’t black and white. Murder is not always a simple act, nor is it often deserved. So I stray at times. I veer from the path laid before me when it seems appropriate. Sometimes it seems necessary to…interfere.
No one is set to die tonight, but the groundwork will be laid. I open and shut the driver-side door with as solid a clunk as you’d expect from the real thing, but that’s the end of my physical presence. No one can see me as I make my way across the square, slicing between the visible spectrum of light.
There is a conversation in which I’m interested—a guilty admission that I have to hear. I draw close to Lady Luck and peer into the neon-lit window.
The rotund man stands behind the bar, ranting at the barkeep tending to customers. He also turns to a few men sitting on stools, trying to get a reaction from them.
One of the
I strain over my shoulder once more to see movement behind a tree—a black, darting figure. I can’t outrun them, however many there are. My joints are already burning and ragged under the stress with which I command them.
A stinging rasp wheezes inside my chest. My eyes water in their own response to anxiety and the bitter air. There’s not much left in me now, and I still have so far to go.
A few houses ahead, a single bulb burns over a side door. Its glow trickles into the driveway; a red truck sits just beyond. This is the most inviting thing I can make out in my hurried scramble. Surely someone is home.
I peg my way toward the driveway, praying to the Lord that somebody will answer my knock.
Bound by Duty, Bound by Souls
February 26 th , 2002 8:51 PM
Inside the Driver’s Camaro
The beauty of a super-physical body is that I can splice myself into the physical world with varying degrees of substance. Someone might see me saunter past—just another motorist on a darkened road. Or I might blend in and out of someone’s conscious thought, sidestepping the triggers that signal they’re not alone.
The mechanics of how it works isn’t important, and the car might as well be an appendage. I’m a mirror reflecting the surface of something that runs deeper than sheet metal and flesh, but the physical world is a concrete place. It’s traversed by the simple and familiar.
The driven wind picks up now and then, sending freight train gusts between narrow passages whether they be of bark or brick. Winter rests heavy upon the earth, immovable, though I can’t feel it.
An hour ago I gave up the chase for Grimley—a mischievous child who stole a soul from me—but just for now. He hides somewhere in the Upper Territory with his new plaything, oblivious to any sense of order or direction.
There’s no use in holding this against him; he’s only a wanderling. Most have some whimsical way about them seeing as they are an aborted, half-formed semblance of what they would have been had they been born.
Tonight the center of Halgraeve, come to life with a call to urgency, draws me in as a casual observer. The squeal of tires and slamming doors rings throughout the square in the center of town, breaking the muted calm.
Peace now ousted, a rotund man in a parka stomps away from his van, belligerent. He vows his intent in an obscenity-laced tirade, kicking over a garbage receptacle to keep onlookers at their distance.
Following behind is a stick figure in a dusky overcoat. A cap covers his bobbing skull, sloppy feet kicking up slush. He tips his head at a few smokers on the sidewalk with a knowing grin.
They both enter a low-slung bar called Lady Luck.
Parked in a secluded corner of the square, I don’t forget I’m bound by an obligation nearly as old as humanity. The methods first used by Abel, passed down to each member of the Fold, stand as my code of ethics.
I abide by these with an understanding that the world isn’t black and white. Murder is not always a simple act, nor is it often deserved. So I stray at times. I veer from the path laid before me when it seems appropriate. Sometimes it seems necessary to…interfere.
No one is set to die tonight, but the groundwork will be laid. I open and shut the driver-side door with as solid a clunk as you’d expect from the real thing, but that’s the end of my physical presence. No one can see me as I make my way across the square, slicing between the visible spectrum of light.
There is a conversation in which I’m interested—a guilty admission that I have to hear. I draw close to Lady Luck and peer into the neon-lit window.
The rotund man stands behind the bar, ranting at the barkeep tending to customers. He also turns to a few men sitting on stools, trying to get a reaction from them.
One of the
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