Chapter #60Fight and Flight by: Seuzz   You lean in toward Chris. "Get out to Blackwell's as fast as you can. We'll be meeting there. You need to catch up on things."
"And I need to--" he says, but you've scampered back over to Laurent. You do glance back at Chris, and warily take in his worried expression. You jerk your chin at him to join you, but after a moment's hesitation he shakes his head and withdraws. Hopefully he's heading straight over to the magician's, if what he has to say isn't so important that he has to tell you now.
So you turn to Andrea. "Yeah?" you gasp.
"You left a mess back at the pool," she says in that quiet voice that tells you she's really pissed off.
"I didn't leave anything!" you protest. "I went off campus at lunch!" You put an arm around Laurent.
She glances between you and him. "Well, whatever," she shrugs. "It's a mess. Come help me clean it up."
"I'm waiting for someone," you weakly protest. It takes all your willpower to resist her, and you clutch more tightly at Laurent. You look up at him.
He swallows. "Nah, I'll help you take care of it," he says.
"But--!" Laurent gives you a look, and you relent.
Andrea precedes you down the hall, not looking back, and you take a ragged breath as you watch her undulating ass. She is so slim, but so well-proportioned, and so perfect. You'd love to be her.
Whoa, where did that thought come from? It's impossible to tell. You yourself would love to wrap her skin around yours, and hug it tightly to yourself; and Rachel would love to have her ease and confidence and command. So maybe it came from both directions.
You pass through an outer door and cross toward the natatorium, which is attached to the gym. Laurent pauses at the door, and you feel a tremble pass through him. But then he leads you in.
The water in the great pool laps softly, and the poolside is spotless; it isn't even wet. "So where's the mess, Andrea?" you demand.
"Over here," she says, and leads you along one edge toward the opposite side. But it's spotless there, too.
"What's going on?" you ask, and your voice begins to shake.
"I need to talk to you guys," she says quietly. "Hang on."
"We got places to be, Andrea," Laurent says gruffly. "Spit--"
You and he turn at the sound of the doors opening again. Indistinct figures push in on the other side of the pool, backlit by the bright sun and muffled by the darkness within the natatorium. But it's a crowd, you can tell. Only when the doors close can you make them out.
It's the wrestling team. Most of them, anyway. Ethan Nieves, Derek Balaban, Devin Haney, Eli Anders: they are in front, but there's a half-dozen more behind. Two figures step out, and you choke. One is Chris Ratliff, staring at you with the same stony expression worn by the others. The other is Charles Hartlein. "Brought the cavalry, Drea, in case you need it," he chortles.
A gauzy haze briefly curtains your vision, and you lurch on your feet. They must have gotten Gordon somehow, and after converting him he told them all about your company and where you were hidden. You feel sick down to your very bones.
"Make it easy for yourselves, guys," Andrea says. "We're in our element. You're not."
Laurent just snorts and pushes her into the pool. Her arms wave comically as she topples in. You're simultaneously revolted and amused at Rick's insolent act.
The wrestlers don't move, except for Eli and Devin exchanging a quiet snicker. Andrea swims to the top and clutches the side of the pool. She raises herself up.
And to your alarm she just keeps rising. Four, five, seven, ten feet into the air she goes, and the water swirls about her. For ten full seconds you watch in paralyzed horror as, like a mermaid or a kraken, she wraps the water about her waist and frowns down with a terrible expression at you and Laurent. I always knew she was a water witch, a little voice in your head squeaks.
Then you catch her real expression. She is as puzzled and alarmed as you.
And it's not a column of water supporting her. The whole contents of the pool have levitated into the air, and are hanging there as though held by an invisible container: a greyish-blue mass that hides the other side of the building. Andrea parts the water with her arms and hangs half out of the edge, and then falls, tumbling fast into the empty pool below. There's a hard crunch. She was in the deep end, and with a fall of twenty-five feet onto concrete, something will have been broken.
You stare, agog at the water, still hanging in mid-air. And then it shoots forward. The entire mass, as though shot from a cannon, slams through the air against the far wall with a deafening boom and crash and roar. Light pours through the broken doors. Broken? They're gone, ripped from their hinges.
"Come on," Laurent says sharply, and seizes your hand. He pulls you around the empty pool at a sprint, and out the doors. The ground is slick, but there's no sign of the wrestling team--unless that's them scattered across the football practice field almost fifty yards away. "Get on the blower," Laurent barks. "Call Frank and your other friend, tell 'em to get over to that warlock's!"
You scramble for your phone, and in a daze try to recall who you need to dial. Ah, Geoff should be it. The screen is a blur, but you recognize the avatar that goes with his number: a photo he'd given Rachel, to her secret disgust.
"Geoff!" you yell, praying that the others have not been captured like Gordon. "James, Frank, whoever! Where are you?"
"Somewhere out on Farm Road. We're going to meet Carson," he says.
"Who's 'we'? Never mind, just get Carson and get somewhere safe! To Blackwell's, Rick says! The golems got Gordon! Laurent-- Rick and me-- We just dodged a trap!"
"What? Fuck! Hang on." There's some garbled noise, and another voice comes on. It takes you a moment to recognize it as Mr. Hagerman's. "Prescott," he says. "This is Frank. What's going on?"
"Where are they?" Laurent demands. You slam into his car, rip open the door, and leap in. "Just give it here." He grabs the phone from you and starts the car in one motion. With a roar he peels out. Students leap away as he races for the street, overleaping the sidewalk and cutting off traffic. You grab onto the hand rest and clench your eyes shut.
Over the shriek of horns and the hammering in your ears you can't make out Laurent's words, and keep your eyes closed until he jogs you in the arm and thrusts the phone back at you. "That fucking twerp," he growls. "He never showed up at the place, and called ten minutes ago saying he had a flat and could they come get him."
"Is he going to be okay?"
"Question is whether he was okay when he called, isn't it? Hang on." He jerks the wheel to the side. You look over your shoulder, and see the flashing lights of a police cruiser swing in behind you. "Where are we going?" You give him Blackwell's address, as best you can remember. "We'll take the scenic route." His smile is grim.
* * * * *
You doubt you'll ever forget the next half hour. Laurent leads the cops on a hard chase all over Saratoga Falls, and even out on the highway for fifteen harrowing minutes. The coupe is like a Mustang under his tight control, and he expertly upshifts and downshifts through tight turns and corners. You've no idea how he does it, but he always stays ahead of the police--whose pursuing numbers soon top half a dozen--and never hits any kind of block at any kind of intersection. He seems to know the town expertly, dodging all the bad lights by taking side streets, and more than once you catch him darting down such a detour even before a looming light has changed. You don't want to distract him, but finally you have to ask: "Does Laurent do this kind of thing all the time?"
"No, and neither do I. But it's just arterial flow, kid. Liquid droplets in another form." You don't ask him to clarify.
The chase climaxes on Farm Road, with Rick screaming down it at over a hundred. A cruiser flashes past him on the left, cutting him off, but he taps the brakes, and it overshoots; he ducks behind and around it as it tries swerving and braking, and hurtles past. "Is that the place?" he asks as the wall around Blackwell's villa looms on the left. "Eh, not enough clearance to get over. We'll have to run." He jams on the floor brakes and pulls on the hand brake; the car spins and roars and stops hard. "Out the door, girlie," he shouts.
Though you're dazed, you dash from the car and get through the gate before the first cop car can roar up. Halfway up the walk Laurent catches your waist in a strong grip, lifts you, and carries you up the steps. The door opens; and he pulls you through; and then you're panting in Blackwell's foyer.
But you're not alone. There's a figure on the floor. You frown at the clothes, and twist your head so you can see the face.
It's Carson. And he's as white and motionless as marble.  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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