Engines of Obsession: Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Armistice

Silence and utter stillness dominated the room. The air felt heavy, as if the simple act of drawing a breath took effort and premeditated thought.

It was only a moment, but to Turner it stretched for hours.

"Who are you, and why are you in my house?"

Byron broke the silence. Once the initial shock had worn off, the young noble's ego reasserted itself. This was Byron's home, so Turner really couldn't blame him for the flare in his temper.

No surprise, then, how quickly Byron was dealt with. The noble managed a single step forward before a decorative throw on the back of the chair next to him thwarted him.

It happened so fast, Turner almost missed it. The small blanket atop the back of the chair leapt into the air, whipping about Byron's upper body -- including his mouth -- with such force that the man stumbled.

At first, Turner thought his footing must have been poor. Then he saw the edge of the rug curl upward just before Byron's foot stepped down. The rug itself tripped the nobleman, sending him crashing down to the floor, tightly-wrapped in the small blanket with muffled curses trying to escape from his covered mouth.

All this happened in an instant. Turner was already taking a step toward the young nobleman when he saw further movement out of the corner of his eye. To his left, where-

Milo.

"DON'T!" Turner shouted, head whipping about. Too late.

Milo had always been fast, and today was no exception. By the time the scrape of metal against plaster registered, the lanky hunter was already halfway to Anne. He'd snatched an axe from a display on the wall, winding up a swing even as he was leaping toward the shopkeeper that had invaded the house.

What most surprised Turner is that it sort of worked.

Whatever means of longevity Anne had discovered, it hadn't made her any faster or better at combat. Eyebrows lifted, eyes widened, and her right arm came up in what looked like a reflex. Even in the brief instant he had to observe, Turner could tell that the woman didn't have the muscle memory for battle. Her footwork was solid, her body twisting in a natural defense, but it was clumsy and slow. She'd been taught some self-defense, but was unpracticed despite her age.

Milo wasn’t skilled with using an axe as a weapon. And this one was just a replica: unbalanced, dull, ornamental. It was, however, a heavy weight with a narrow edge mounted atop a sturdy wooden haft. Proper weapon or not, when his swing connected to Anne's right forearm, the result was bloody and unpleasant to watch.

Anne herself stumbled back against the wall, a soft grunt escaping. The louder SNAP of bone breaking nearly drowned it out. Her arm twisted grotesquely, spraying blood across the wall and down her front. Turner caught a glimpse of jagged, bloody bone from within the arm, a compound fracture snapping at least one of the two bones in her forearm through the flesh. Red fountained over both her and Milo, whose face showed some shock as well.

Turner was already stepping toward Milo now, changing direction from the trapped Byron to try to back up his companion. Things were moving too fast. Even without any hesitation, Turner couldn't keep up with everything happening. He wasn't sure anyone could.

Milo had just finished his swing, but never got the chance to recover his balance. A creaking, groaning noise from behind Anne was the only warning anyone had before a gauntleted fist smashed into Milo's ribs, hard enough for a wince-inducing crack!

Turner flinched, still several strides away from the brief, violent confrontation. Milo wheezed heavily as he tripped and collided with the wall, only for the nearby tapestry to coil around his body, pinning his arms much like Byron had been entangled. The cloth, just like the decorative throw earlier, writhed and tightened as if alive, but stopped short of crushing him. Milo grunted and gasped in pain, but didn't look in danger of death.

The creaking and clattering noise grew louder as the one who had thrown the punch stepped down from its pedestal to stand next to the injured Anne. One of the 'display' suits of armor had come to her defense, and stood rigidly beside her. The fingers of the gauntlet were twisted and in disarray, while every motion of the body made loud protests of splintering wood and warping metal. Whatever internal framework the armor had been mounted upon wasn't built to move... yet move it did, under protest.

Turner skid to a halt several steps away from the armor and the redheaded shopkeep. He inhaled sharply at Anne's casual indifference to her injury. Blood splattered on the floor, pooling rapidly, but the woman's eyes merely looked at her jutting, bloodied bone with clinical assessment.

Despite all the death and injuries Turner had seen, he still felt his stomach turn as Anne lifted her left hand to her crippled right arm. Delicate fingers gingerly pushed the bone back into the flesh, making soft and gruesome wet noises of flesh and bone shifting about. The fingers of her right hand twitched ones as she wrapped her left hand around the injured forearm, squeezing once... then releasing without much concern for the still-bleeding wound.

Turner could see the still-broken bone shift unnaturally as Anne wiggled and curled her fingers. Her arm came up so she could examine it, flexing her hand. She nodded in satisfaction after a moment's inspection, moving the hand and arm easily in spite of their mangled condition.

She isn't healing fast or anything, Turner realized. She just doesn't care.

He didn't dare get any closer. The punch that animated armor had thrown wasn't to be taken lightly, and he was unarmed. Heat flushed his face. Cold prickled his limbs. Turner’s detached mind labeled it for what it was: real fear. When he'd spoken to Anne in the shop, it had been her territory, yet under a civil veneer. Now, she had no such expectations.

"Martin!" Nora's voice cut through Turner's momentary paralysis. "I'll look at Milo, you go get Reginald's arm." Normally, she'd be rushing to Milo's side. She was moving slowly, and Turner could see the deliberate care she took walking toward the fallen hunter. Her eyes stayed on Anne the entire time, and... Nora's face was pale. Paler than Turner had ever seen her.

Anne lowered her arm, inspection complete. Blood still dripped, but more slowly than before. Turner was pretty sure it should be bleeding more, but he wasn't an expert.

"Good," the shopkeeper said in a cold, even tone. "He will not die. It was a brave but foolhardy move. James would have liked the boy." Anne's eyes turned from Milo, to Turner, and then to Nora. "And you struck me as being careful and intelligent, young man," she said to Turner.

When her eyes met Nora's, Anne actually smiled. "Hmm. Now you have some talent, don't you? Have you been taught? What tradition?"

And with that, Turner felt the pressure he hadn't realized was upon him easing. He backed away, slowly making his way to the fallen Lord Byron. The young noble had stopped thrashing about, his eyes wide and staring at Anne's display. Turner crouched beside him, just hoping the fall hadn’t done real harm.

Nora swallowed as she kneeled by Milo. Turner rarely saw his partner rattled like this. She was a rock, a pillar of stability in his life, and her quiet and loyal presence had always been assumed. Now, if anything, she looked more terrified than he.

"I was taught by a local wise woman," Nora answered cautiously, fingers gently probing at the groaning Milo's side. A flicker of a frown touched her lips, but Turner knew that look. The injury was bad, but far from life-threatening. "She didn't mention a tradition. By the time I returned from Grunthal, she was dying. I learned most of the rest myself."

"Tch," Anne muttered in an annoyed tone. "I hope that you at least learned something worthwhile at the Academy. All these years and they still won't... never mind." She shook her head. "Self-taught, then. Though your protections have a similar style to the Ashen Binding... hmm. I suppose if you are only to dabble, that would be a reasonable path to take."

While Nora and Anne spoke, Turner finally managed to yank the blanket wrapped around Byron's mouth down. The man took a deep, heaving breath, no longer forced to filter it through the half-blocked nose. His eyes remained fixated on Anne, but the noble's ego didn't take over this time. He knew he was outmatched and seeing something beyond the norm. Turner placed a hand on his shoulder, attempting to reassure him.

Turner kept silent, knowing instinctively that anything he said would only tilt the balance. This wasn’t his conversation anymore. They were in Nora's hands, now.

"Don't move, Milo," Nora said, briefly pulling her attention away from Anne. "I think you have a few broken ribs. I'll do what I can after she leaves."

Nora's eyes swept over to Anne again, where she resumed speaking. "You are going to leave once we give you the arm, yes? Why do you care where I was taught?"

"Curiosity," Anne replied, making a dismissive wave with her arm. Her right arm. The torn flesh hadn't really healed, oozing blood at a sluggish but steady pace. Turner even saw the bone ripple unnaturally underneath the skin. It made him queasy, but he couldn't say anything about it. That couldn't have been her first injury in all these years, but it didn't look like it would heal right.

Anne continued speaking, either oblivious to the stares, or uncaring. "I have no other reason to stay. I have much work to do, but the materials in that arm are rather rare. It would take time I do not want to spend to replace the arm. Especially not if I had to listen to Reginald’s whining. Even a quick fix wouldn’t match perfectly, and he’d complain about that endlessly."

Nora swallowed, watching the hand as well. Whatever she saw, she didn't mention directly. In a low voice, she asked, "What are you?"

That gave Anne pause, as if she were surprised by the question. Her head tilted to the side, her voice now casual. "I am a witch. The same as you, my dear. Merely more experienced." Her voice had none of the boasting and bravado Turner had come to associate with prodigies such as what she obviously was. "You could be me, if you liked."

Her eyes looked at her arm and the gruesome tear along the forearm. Then Anne corrected, "Almost. I suppose there are some things that would be difficult for you as you are now."

The woman paused, meeting Nora's gaze directly. A low, amused chuckle floated out of Anne's throat. "You are trying to See me. I wonder how well-developed that is? Though you all are so full of surprises. The boy here breaking my shop's wards was... impressive."

Nora shot a quick look at Turner, but Anne continued thoughtfully, interrupting any questions Nora could ask.

"I wonder what sort of construct you would make?"