Shadows (Ashes Trilogy 2)

On the snow, Ruby’s left hand lay with the fingers curled like a dead tarantula. Still shrieking, her right hand starred in a bony claw, Ruby stared down at the empty space where her left hand had been only seconds before as her blood jetted from severed arteries.

“Jesus!” Sharon leapt onto Ruby, wrapping her up, bringing the still-screaming woman down to the snow. Clamping both huge hands around Ruby’s wrist, Sharon squeezed. “You sons of bitches, you sons of bitches!”

“Ruuubeeeeee!” Ray bawled. He made one abortive step toward his wife, and then checked himself, swinging the Browning back to Beretta. “Get up, you son of a bitch, get up! We’re walking out of here, and if one of you twitches, if one of you moves—”

No one twitched or moved, but Beretta did not get up either. The air was electric, fizzy with scents and meanings. There were so many that Alex only had time to think how strange it was that with all these weapons, no one had fired. The only one who’d acted at all was the ninja-kid from Leopard’s crew who’d hacked Ruby’s hand. Another ninja could’ve taken off Ray’s head with the same speed. With all these weapons, all they had to do was take Ray down. Although the Browning’s pull was medium—only five pounds of pressure—the chances that Ray’s finger would exert that much as the bullets chewed through his clothes and into his body were small. Not zero, but so infinitesimal as to make no difference. For that matter, Acne was right there and could take Ray’s feet out from under him with a single powerful kick. Any of them could do anything. Ruby was an afterthought, a display and show of power—and Ray should already be dead.

Oh my God. She gasped as the lightbulb flashed in her brain. He already is. This was never about choice because it’s the Browning. It’s Nathan’s rifle, and that very first day, when Spider pulled the trigger, it wouldn’t—

“Ray!” she screamed. “Ray, no, the rifle doesn’t—”

Ray squeezed the trigger.

38

As soon as they slipped beneath the ice, Tom felt the old man begin to fight, but the stranglehold around Tom’s throat didn’t let up. Even with the added weight, his lungs held air and air gave him buoyancy. He would bob like a cork until he drowned.

So Tom tucked and dove, straight down, pulling hard with his arms. It went against all logic. His mind screamed at him to stop, stop! Air was above. Below was death. That was precisely why he did it.

The old man let go.

In an instant, Tom was twisting back, coming around, trying to remember which way was up—because, in all that terrible blackness, he had no idea. He could feel the old man thrashing not far away. Hands grabbed for him out of the dark; fingers bunched in his shirt. Cocking his elbow, Tom pistoned his right fist. He felt the impact, then heard the man’s scream, muted by water. Something shuddered past his face: bubbles, boiling for the surface. Kicking away, he followed them and left the old man behind in the dark.

Almost almost almost almost . . . The word had weight and substance; it was in the pounding of his heart and the bright burn in his chest. He had to be almost there; he had to be almost almost almost . . .

Then he heard something new, frantic and rhythmic. Raleigh. Raleigh, on the surface, barking. He followed the sound. With the last of his strength, he surged up, fingers splayed—

And hit a sheet of solid ice.

39

Nonononono! The burn in Tom’s lungs was so bad and his need for air so huge, a great ball of panic tried blasting past his lips in a scream. He pounded a fist into the ice. Pressing right up to the shelf, he kicked and strained, tried to bully his way through to air. Air air air come on comeoncomeoncomeon—

The dog barked again. Where? From his right? He didn’t know. The water was cold enough to burn and black as oil; he was blind and more terrified than ever before—and that brought an awful clarity as well. Think, or he was dead.

Follow the sound, follow the dog; Raleigh, bark again, come on, boy, come on, please . . . Another bark, and this time, he grabbed onto the sound of the dog like a lifeline. With the very last of his strength, he kicked away from the suck and grab of the darkness and walked his hands along the underside of the ice, his gloved fingers futilely scratching, biting, searching for any chink, the tiniest break.

And then, he was done: breakpoint. It was over, and he knew it. He couldn’t hold his breath another second. He just couldn’t. He was finished, and before he could think about it, his throat convulsed and then he was flailing as the spent air rushed from his lungs in a scream—

His right hand shot out of the water and into nothing. Into air. He surged up, his head shattering into empty space and blessed air, and then he was coughing and spluttering, drawing in one shrieking breath after another. Chunks of ice bobbed and smacked against his chest and arms as he thrashed. His lungs wouldn’t work well. He couldn’t get enough air; he didn’t even have the breath to scream.

Got to get out, get out get out get out! Terror bolted into his throat and stayed there. Drowning was his nightmare. More than being shot or bleeding out or getting himself blown to teeny tiny bits— drowning was right up there with burning to death, and he was going to drown; he was going to die. The cold was a giant palm that cupped his body and drew away heat. He was getting weak and so tired. Let up on kicking for even a few seconds and he started to sink again. He heard his arms slap water, but the sound was receding, thinning as panic swamped his brain.

Slow down, slow down, slow down. He was gasping. His head began to whirl. He would pass out if he couldn’t stop hyperventilating, but he just couldn’t get a handle on the rat-panic scrambling around in his head. You’ve still got time, come on, come on, slow down, slow—

Raleigh whimpered.

“R-R-Raleigh.” His lips were numb and he was shivering hard enough to bite his tongue. To his horror, the pain was only a distant pinprick. If there was blood, he couldn’t taste it. “Come h-here, b-b-boy.” The dog whined, and he thought it must be dead ahead. Not too far away. “R-Raleigh, come on.”

The dog responded with a small huff. Was the dog closer? He couldn’t tell. He put out a gloved hand, slapped more water, and then headed for the place in the dark where he thought the dog must be. He breasted the surface, half-swimming but mostly treading water and slapping until his fingers brushed something hard that did not bob away. The edge of the break. He thrust a hand out even further, patting the darkness and then, layered over the ice, a denser mélange of compacted snow. No dog. So it was still far away and he was running out of time.