Shatter the Earth (Cassandra Palmer 10)

Holy shit!

I yelled, Rhea dropped the lantern, and I stumbled back onto the stairs, causing the candelabras to abruptly go out. Not that it mattered, because the glowing shit storm had just crashed into me. I flapped my hands around my head, swatting at the swirling mass of images like I was trying to fend off a swarm of angry bees. Which is what they felt like, screaming nightmares at me as I pounded back up the stairs, all the way to the main floor again, where I staggered out, slammed the door, and stood with my back to it, breathing hard.

Before realizing that Rhea was still down there.

Shit!

I opened the door and pulled her through, then slammed it shut again. And stamped on some mad escapees that were fluttering against the carpet. A few acolytes or older initiates paused on their way up the staircase to watch me, but I ignored them. I was too busy killing a glowing page with a tiny dragon on it that was trying to set my foot alight!

I put out its fire—permanently—and looked up to find Rhea staring at me, too. But she didn’t say anything, which was one of the best things about her. She knew when to talk, and when to say nothing at all.

Unlike me.

“Option two,” I told her grimly, and she mangled her lip some more.

~~~

The stairs, I decided, were the problem. Something about those damned things alerted the cases that there was someone available for them to torture. So, okay, then. No stairs.

I materialized as far away as I could get, shifting beside one of the dark corridors on the other side of the big room. And immediately hugged the wall, breathing as quietly as possible with my heart trying to hammer out of my chest. The stones behind me were cold, and I could see my breath in front of my face, but nothing attacked me, nothing moved.

Nothing at all!

I stayed put for a moment anyway, just in case, but there weren’t any more weird flutterings. There weren’t any more lava lights. Just pulsating darkness, the still, quiet room, and the tiny clouds I was exhaling in relief.

And the massive katana headed for my neck.

I dropped like a stone and looked up, just in time to see the wall gouged by the force of the blow that had almost taken my head off. I scrambled back and the sword followed me. I had the impression that it was held in the hand of a large samurai looking guy, but didn’t get a clear view, because it was all I could do to avoid the slashing blows.

One hit the floor, taking a wedge of my hem off. One slashed the air right over my head as I abruptly leaned backwards, causing it to miss my face by inches. And when I rolled under a display case, it all but detonated over top of me, collapsing under a mass of tempered steel and the mountain of muscle wielding it.

I didn’t have enough air in my lungs left to scream, not and crawl at the same time, and I opted to crawl. Or something like it—more of a mad, flailing scramble while blood trickled down my face, broken glass stabbed my palms and shins, and a meaty hand grabbed for my hair. But it didn’t catch enough of it and I tore away, stumbled to my feet, and ran—

Straight into Rhea.

“Is it all right this time?” she asked, as what felt like a hammer blow caught me full in the back.

I felt my spine cleave, my blood spurt, and one of my lungs, now shredded by the deadly blade, collapse. I used the other to finally scream—in her face. She screamed back, a startled yelp of a sound, and for a second there, we just stood there and screamed at each other. Until I grabbed her and shifted—

Back to the upper hallway again.

We landed on a slippery carpet, which slid out from under our feet and dumped us onto the floor. We ended up in a pile of white lace skirts and thrashing limbs, still screaming. And me pawing at my chest, which should have had a massive sword sticking out of it.

But instead, my fingers just met scratchy lace, a little dusty from my crawl around the floor, but otherwise fine. I pushed tumbled hair out of my eyes and rolled off of Rhea, all while staring in disbelief at my unshredded tits. And then up at a group of acolytes, larger than before, who were lining the stairs. Not going up or down this time, but just loitering about as if they didn’t have anything better to do.

Rhea groaned and sat up, pushing her own weight of hair, a lot darker and heavier than mine, out of her eyes. And then narrowed them at Agnes. Who, I realized, was one of the audience members on the staircase.

“What are you doing here?” Rhea demanded.

Agnes gave her an insolent grin. “Watching the show.”

Rhea scowled.

I laughed, a sudden burst of sound, and lay back against the floor, panting and giggling and feeling the particular euphoria that only comes from unexpectedly not dying.

“We’re thinking of charging admission,” Agnes added.

Rhea helped me up, still glaring daggers at her mother. “Option three,” she told me curtly.