Blood from Stone. Laura Anne Gilman

missing a stride, she reached down with two mental hands and dragged up current, spinning it with a thought into a tent of magical energy deflecting not only bullets but eyesight from finding them.

      Once, she would have needed a cantrip or spell to help focus her thoughts and direct the current. If she’d had time, she still would have used one, just to make sure her intent was clear and focused. But her ability to channel was greater than it had been then, and she didn’t need words any more than she needed hand-waving or a wand.

      She found, channeled, and created, all in one swoop. Wizzing did have its perks.

      Then the cramps hit her, and she almost dropped the kid as she doubled over in agony. Perks, my ass. She managed not to drop Marc Jr, mainly because his arms were wrapped around her neck.

      “We gotta run,” a soft, serious voice piped near her ear.

      “I know, kid, I know.”

      But she couldn’t move, not for all the little hands tugging at her. The pain was too intense; it took all her energy to keep the shield up and still remain functional. They were going to have to hope that the shield was enough, that they could outlast the threat, hope that once they started attracting attention, the bad guys would give up and go away.

      “Over there!” A voice shouting, alerting: bringing danger. Backup troops, she had been right, the guy wasn’t alone. And nobody seemed to be willing to get involved, not that she blamed them. Gunfire sent smart people for the general direction of down and away. The only people crazy enough to get involved—heroes, professional or otherwise—were not the sort she wanted involved in this, either. Best case scenario, they’d ask to see ID, and the kid didn’t have any. Nor did she have any proof he belonged with her. That would lead to…questions.

      A guy came running up, gun in hand, his face red with the exertion of chasing after her, and the first guy, the contact, was close behind. They weren’t giving up—they knew she was there, somewhere.

      Her shield wasn’t going to be enough. If these guys were aware, and trained, they might even be able to see through her shield. You could fool all of the people some of the time, but not if they knew what they were looking for. Not even she could do that. Or at least, she thought, she never had been able to before….

      Wren reached deep inside herself for another double handful of current. Dark blue and reds, a shimmer of orange, an etching of silver, all coiling around her hands, sliding up her shoulders, setting fire to her bones. The power that possessed her almost overwhelmed the cramps, reminding her of how good it could feel to simply let go, to let the current run through her.

      Kill them.

      The thought—an echo of her own voice, her own memory—shot through her like a lightning bolt, familiar and terrifying. Suddenly she was no longer in a green suburban park, but surrounded by concrete and metal, pressure slamming against her brain, her pulse racing, the weight of an entire city crushing her with the need to strike, to destroy, to kill any and everything that stood against her, that threatened her and hers.

      No. No more. Never again. The thought was hers, supported by deeper, masculine voices.

      She could kill. She had killed. She had been backed into a corner and struck out, and destroyed those who threatened her and hers.

      The knowledge no longer devastated her. She had killed. She was not a killer. She was not. She would not allow that reaction, that desire, to rule her, to control her. She would not.

      The current scorched her skin, but she controlled it. Controlled herself.

      Survive. Do not kill. Survive. The two warring instincts—the two opposing needs—battled for primacy over her reactions.

      *Idiot female.*

      The roar of words in her head was fire and brimstone, treacle and mud, coming down over her barriers like brackish high tide over the breakers.

      *Max?* A mixed wash of relief and fear. She had been right; her current called him, even here. He scared the hell out of her, but hell was what she needed to get rid of, right now. Better the devil in someone else than the devil in you?

      *Max, I…need help*

      Admitting that to anyone was difficult for her. Admitting it to a crazy man, a fellow lonejack who had just tried to run her off the job, who was as likely to kill them both as help them, to a wizzart who might do anything, or nothing, in response to her plea…

      *Let me in*

      Oh God. What a very, very, very bad idea that was. She had no choice. There wasn’t anyone strong enough, near enough. Trust wasn’t an issue in the face of survival.

      She grabbed the kid more tightly, and let down her barriers just enough to let Max slide in.

      Given access to her inner self, he swept up and over her like a storm front, his intent rising up before her, his intent to do what she could not. His tarry current was vile and yet beautiful, black lightning sparking and flashing inside a dark storm cloud of his awareness. Battered, barely holding herself together, somehow she fought it.

      *No! No killing.*

      His disgust at what he saw as her weakness was a physical blow in a psychic battle. Wren took it, absorbed it, did not strike back but merely—merely!—demanded that he adhere to her command.

      She was not strong enough to command a wizzart, not without going there herself. Not without losing her own tenuous control. But he could allow himself to be directed, if he chose.

      If he chose.

      *Hurt them,* she suggested. *Scare the shit out of them. But don’t snuff them.*

      He resisted, and she pushed harder. *Harder to scare away than to kill* she challenged him, risking the taunt to get his dander up and aimed where she needed it. *Just keep the kid safe.* She hesitated, then added *and me, too!* just in case he was unclear on the concept of “help.”

      Push and shove, push and shove, an endless space of a second, and then she felt his reluctant acquiescence, felt the brimstone and treacle mass sweep around until her current and his slammed against each other, their differing masses and density creating virtual thunderclaps where they came into contact. The kid shuddered, caught between them, racked by the current. She didn’t dare reach down to comfort him, all of her focus on keeping Max with them and in the game plan.

      *Follow me* A visual with the words, a thick black anvil of a storm cloud opening up, a stovepipe chimney down into the heart of the storm, swirling around her with all the power of The Alchemist’s overpowered, overfull brain.

      She grabbed the kid with both hands, keeping him down on the ground with her, trying to send some reassurance, and leaped into the maelstrom.

      Inside, there was a second of calm, the winds howling around outside them, and then monsters leaped at her, claws black and bloody, their teeth serrated and their scales slick with oily, viscous substances she didn’t want to think about. Once they would have terrified her; once they would have made her run like hell.

      She had walked on the wrong side of madness since then. She had led people to their deaths, had taken lives from the undeserving, and decided who was deserving and who was not.

      Her own monsters inside were just as frightening as anything Max carried. Worse, because she had birthed them.

      *You know nothing* Max spat, even as he was laying his own current over hers, forcing them to integrate and work together. *You understand nothing.* The monsters grabbed onto her, digging their claws in, their bilious blood dripping into her veins, sending directions of what to do and how to do it directly to her core. It was a little like rape, and a lot like school, and entirely horrible. That was exactly the impact he intended, she was pretty sure. Bastard.

      Her only consolation was the thought that whatever she was seeing, the guys after them were probably getting a taste of the same feedback in their un Talented skulls, under the force of Max’s wild energy. She hoped that they did shit their pants, and then some.

      Whatever