From the Stars, to the Stars

From the Stars, to the Stars: Chapter Twenty-one

A heady battle cry swells from my stomach up into my throat, the promise of getting to do some real damage getting me high. "Bring it!" I think.

Just as quickly, dizziness replaces my enthusiasm, forcing me to fight against a repeat engagement with my dinner. Tristan had Vulcan Mind Melded us so fully his consciousness threatened to overwhelm mine.

I tug at my thoughts, struggling to put some space between Tristan's brain and mine, but Tristan is distracted; his combat instincts kicking into gear, and he can't sense me trying to haul myself back. It's like trying to pull against a heavy crate when you can't get any traction under your feet.

Through Tristan's eyes I see a single lurker emerge from behind an angel statue, his sunken cheeks and matted hair reminding me of Murph, but a damp glow—weaker than it should be--shrouds him and marks him as a Dark.

He sways forward in a jerky, disjointed way as a much larger Dionadair joins him, towering above him like a shield. The rest of the group comes forward in ones and twos, little pillars of light brightening the haze of rain and shadows of the northern trees.

Of the forty or so, eight of them are definitely not brainwashed puppies. Tristan's thoughts whir around in my head, assessing physical features, weighing potential threats. Two Darks break from the ranks, a tall blond, and one with punky red hair a step behind. Fluid, feral strides bring them close enough to see their teeth bared in wicked sharp grins. We might be on a retrieval mission, but these two are attack dogs, out to let blood.

They stop at the half-way point, the blond stabbing through the otherworldly silence of the rain. "How hospitable to let us choose the setting for our little gathering," he murmurs, rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Why, we won't even have to waste time disposing of the bodies here."

His voice slithers toward me. It flows so cool and detached through Tristan's heightened sense of hearing. The baby hairs on the back of my neck rise, goosebumps forming in the wake of a chill running down my spine. I wonder if the small army of little boys huddled behind him, trying to look brave and righteous, mattered to him at all.

Tristan's adrenaline spikes. I feel it in my own veins, miles away, the surge of fury as he considers the same question as me. We're so tightly woven together, I can't be sure which of really wants to know.

Bronwyn growls quietly, the wild creature inside my gentle friend surfacing.

The Dark—L, I guessed from the way he took command—doesn't flinch or even seem to register the menace spilling off of Bronwyn and Tristan. He simply sweeps his gaze over them with amused interest.

"Oh, the poor lambikins," Delia whispers somewhere to Tristan's right. I can't tell exactly where because my sight is limited to his range of vision, and he's staring straight at the boys, mentally mapping the best route for Bronwyn to get to the them before they get hurt in the crossfire.

Oh, I see, I think. The rest of us are just running interference for Bryn.

Matty swears under his breath. "I'm gonna have fun playing Whack-A-Mole with that dude's head," he promises from behind me as he slaps something—his sword?—repeatedly against the palm of his hand.

And then everything goes to Hell.

Some dumb-jock Dark tries to bull-rush Delia, but she bounds over him and lands on his other side. When it finally sinks into his dense skull that he hadn't gotten his hands on her, he shuffles around slowly.

Delia bends at the waist, planting her thumbs at her temples and waggles her fingers, shouting, "Neener, neener, neener!" The enraged Dark drops to all fours like a bull, and charges again. Delia mimics a toreador, waving an imaginary red cape at her side. She somersaults out of the way at the last second, making the Dark crash head-first into a couple's-sized tombstone.