Winter Halo (Outcast 2)

I stopped at the crater’s rim and stared down into it. The darkness was thick, almost gelatinous, and lapped at the tips of my boots in gentle waves. It was unlike anything I’d ever come across before. Even the shadows that had covered the other false rifts had not felt this foul, this . . . alien.

This wasn’t magic. Or, if it was, it wasn’t the sort of magic that had originated from this world. It just didn’t have the right feel. So did that mean it had come from the Others? From wherever they’d come from?

Were they even capable of magic?

I really had no idea. I doubted there was anyone alive who did know, simply because anyone who’d ever come across one of them didn’t live to tell the tale.

Except, I thought with a chill, Sal and his partners. They’d not only survived, but—thanks to the rift that had hit them just as a wraith was emerging—Sal’s partners now had its DNA running through their bodies.

I stared down at my

boots, at the oily, glistening substance that stained the tips of them. Revulsion stirred, and the urge to retreat hit so strongly I actually took a step back. But that wouldn’t give me the answers I needed. Wouldn’t help find the missing children.

And it was that desire, more than anything, that got me moving in the right direction. One step; two. No stones slid from under my feet this time. Or, if they did, they made no sound. It was still and hushed in this small part of the world—almost as if the night held its breath in expectation. Or horror.

The darkness slid over my feet and ankles, and oddly felt like water. Thick, foul water that was colder than ice. It pressed my combat pants against my skin as it rose up my legs, and the weapons clipped to my thighs gained an odd, frosty sheen. I crossed mental fingers and hoped like hell this stuff didn’t damage them. I didn’t want to face whatever—whoever—might be waiting at the bottom of this crater without any means of protection.

The farther I moved down the slope—the deeper I got into the darkness—the harder every step became. Sweat trickled down my spine, but its cause wasn’t just the effort of moving forward. This stuff, whatever it was, scared me.

I reached back and pulled free one of the two slender machine rifles that were strapped to my back. I’d adapted them ages ago to fire small wooden stakes rather than bullets, simply because wood was deadlier than metal when it came to vampires—at least for shots to the body, which were generally easier. Stakes would poison them if they didn’t immediately kill; metal would not. But you had to hit them first for either weapon to cause any sort of damage, and that wasn’t always easy, given their shadowing ability.

Of course, there was a very big chance none of my weapons would work after this muck touched them, but I still felt better with the rifle’s weight in my hand.

The darkness washed up my stomach, over my breasts, then up to my neck. I raised my face in an effort to avoid becoming fully immersed for as long as possible. Which was stupid. It was just darkness, not water, no matter how much it felt otherwise. I wouldn’t drown in this stuff.

But could I breathe?

I took one final, deep breath, just in case, and then pushed on. The ink washed up my face and then over my head, and it suddenly felt like there was a ton of weight pressing down on me. Every step became an extreme effort; all too soon my leg muscles were quivering and it took every ounce of determination I had to keep upright, to keep moving.

I pressed on, but I really had no idea if I was heading in the right direction. Not only did the darkness envelop me, but it also stole all sense of time and direction. God, what if this was a trap? What if all along they’d intended nothing more than to lure me down here to get rid of me? Sal’s partners had to be aware of his death by now, just as they had to be aware that I was the one who’d found and rescued the five kids—after all, those kids had been nothing more than bait in an attempt to trap and kill me. That it hadn’t gone exactly as they’d hoped was due to good luck on my part rather than bad planning on their part. Or, rather, good luck and a whole lot of help from the adult déchet who haunted my bunker.

And while Sal’s partners might have no idea what I truly looked like—and therefore couldn’t stop me from entering their businesses in Central, or hunt me down—they were well aware that I lived in the old underground military bunker outside that city. And they’d undoubtedly realized I would not abandon the rest of those children.

I had been expecting some sort of retaliatory attack, but against our bunker rather than out here in the middle of nowhere.

If this was a trap, then it was one I’d very stupidly walked right into. But there was nothing I could do about that now. I just had to keep moving.

But the deeper I got, the more crushing the weight of the darkness became. My legs were beginning to bow under the pressure, my spine ached, and my shoulders were hunched forward. It felt as if I could topple over at any minute, and it took every ounce of concentration and strength to remain upright. May the goddess Rhea help me if I met anything coming up out of the crater, because I doubted I’d even have the energy to pull the rifle’s trigger.

Then, with little warning, the weight lifted and I was catapulted into fresh air and the regular night. I took a deep, shuddering breath and became aware of something else. Or rather, someone else.

Because I was no longer alone.

I slowly turned around. At the very bottom of the crater, maybe a dozen or so yards away from where I stood, there was a rift. A real rift, not a false one. It shimmered and sparked against the cover of night, and while the energy it emitted was foul, it nevertheless felt a whole lot cleaner than the thick muck I’d just traversed.

Standing in front of it were four figures—three with their backs to the rift, one standing facing it. The solo person was the dark-cloaked, hooded figure I’d been following. The other three . . .

I shuddered, even as I instinctively raised my weapon and fired. The other three were tall and thin, with pale translucent skin through which you could trace every muscle, bone, and vein. There was no hair on their bodies and they didn’t really have faces. Just big amber eyes and squashed noses.

Wraiths.

And they reacted even as I did. Though none of them had anything resembling a mouth, they screamed—it was a high-pitched sound of fury I doubted any human would be capable of hearing, and it made my ears ache. The two front figures—the cowled man and the figure I presumed was the wraith’s leader—leapt sideways, out of the firing line. But the other two came straight at me. I kept firing, but the machine rifle’s wooden bullets bounced harmlessly off their translucent skin.

I slung the useless rifle back over my shoulder, unclipped the guns from my pants, then turned and fled into the soupy darkness. Just because I could fight didn’t mean I had to or wanted to—especially not when it came to wraiths. And two of them at that.

The darkness enveloped me once more. My pace slowed to a crawl, but my heart rate didn’t. I had no idea if this muck would affect them as it did me, and all I could do was pray to Rhea that it did. I didn’t want to die. Not here, not in this stuff, and certainly not at the hand of a wraith.

I forged on, hurrying as much as the heaviness would allow, my breath little more than shallow rasps of fear. While I couldn’t hear any sound of pursuit, I knew they were behind me. Ripples of movement washed across my spine, getting stronger and stronger as the wraiths drew closer.