Beyond the Horizon

1. Reach

Sunlight glinted off the edge of the blade pointed at Nezumi's throat. It was a small, pathetic thing—the edge dull and chipped. Something grabbed in desperation. An experienced killer would have sought out something more efficient. Not a murderer, then. Just some down-on-his-luck thief who grabbed whoever was foolish enough to walk the streets alone.

          You've got to be kidding, Nezumi thought, his eyebrows raising in a mockery of surprise. One minute he'd been walking down the streets of an unimpressive little town. The next, a hand had emerged from the alley, caught the hem of his jacket, and yanked him into the shadows.

          Nezumi had anticipated the attack long before it went down. His life had been nothing but running. A threat lurking around each corner. When he'd sensed the person crouching in the alley, waiting to strike, he'd prepared for a confrontation. A difficult fight. They always came armed and prepared to deal with him—but rather than the men in dark suits Nezumi had been preparing to take down, he found himself staring into the face of an idiotic mugger.

          The man in front of him was nothing to be concerned about. The sight of the knife was often enough to convince people to hand over their valuables, but Nezumi knew the man didn't know how to use the knife. He held it all wrong. His fingers shook around the hilt, as if this were his first time pointing it at someone. Nezumi knew he could knock it from his hand in the blink of an eye.

          "Give me your money, kid," the mugger growled. The hood of his windbreaker had been pulled up over his head in a quick attempt to hide his face, but Nezumi could make out the shadows under his eyes. The deep hollows of his cheeks. This man either hadn't eaten well, or drugs were somehow involved. Nezumi would bet money on the latter.

          A physical confrontation was more of a hassle than Nezumi felt it was worth. Beating up an assailant ran the risk of attracting more unwanted attention. And attention was something Nezumi wanted to avoid, as much as he could.

          Forcing a look of terror on his face, Nezumi said, "OK, OK. I will. Just—just don't do anything crazy."

          Nezumi was a skilled actor. He'd been practicing looking genuine when he smiled. Looking scared on cue. Pretending he had no control of the situation when he was, in fact, the only one in control.

          "Just shut up and give me your money!" the man snarled. For good measure, he jammed the point of the knife closer toward Nezumi.

          Wow. Rude. Nezumi sunk his teeth into his lower lip. He reached a hand into his jacket pocket, forcing his fingers to tremble. "OK," he said, his voice coming out soft and wobbly. "OK, just don't hurt me."

          "Give me your money and I'll let you go," the mugger assured. He held his free hand out, his wide eyes darting back and forth to the opening of the alley. "Just hurry up."

          Nezumi's fingers curled around the contents of his pocket: a handful of leaves. He shakingly pulled them from his jacket, pretending fear of the knife had slowed his movements. Leaves had become Nezumi's constant companion. The need for money and the inability to receive it reliably had left Nezumi with little choice but to fill his pockets with scraps of nature and trick his victims into thinking of them as currency. Not the most respectable thing in the world, but times were rough.

          Nezumi lifted his head and peered through the darkness. His silver eyes sought out the pupils of the mugger's eyes in the shadows. Eye contact was not a necessity in these situations, but it made his work easier.

          As he pulled the leaves out of his pocket and presented them to the mugger, Nezumi looked into his dark eyes and Reached.

          He pictured a large hand stretching across the space between them. The fingers pressed into the man's mind, slipping into his pupils and weaving into the synapses pulsing through his brain. He drifted over the grooves of damage, the lingering effects of regular drug use. The lightning firing between the connections was weak where it should have been strong, and too concentrated in the areas it should have been gentle.