Technomancer (Unspeakable Things: Book One)

them.
    “Ah, I understand,” I said.
    Each member of the circle reached under his or her right leg and lifted a knife. Each knife was the same—a slightly curved affair with a wicked point. I seriously considered shooting them, but I figured that even if I did kill several, the rest might be crazy enough to keep coming. Either that, or my gun wouldn’t stop them. Judging that the safest move was a quick exit, I strode forward toward the rip. It was the only way to get out before they could fall upon me.
    The cultists took action. One older woman to my right, with thick glasses and a bad perm, lifted a rag doll and shook it. A blast of heat passed around me—but only dried my skin of sweat. She looked shocked.
    A man to my left also moved. He wore a workman’s set of grimy coveralls. He lifted a small ball-peen hammer in one hand. He looked like a mechanic. He made a striking motion in the air with the small hammer. I felt a puff of air pass by me as he did so. The woman with the rag dollscreeched and fell backward, knocked flat. Her head bled and she didn’t move.
    “I couldn’t have missed!” the mechanic in the coveralls shouted.
    My right shoe splashed into the pool of blood they surrounded. I was moving into the swirling region of space that separated this place from the hotel room. A young girl who could not have been more than fourteen made one last attempt to stop me. She had long, pale arms as thin as a child’s. Her arms and her steel flashed as she cut me with her blade and scored a nick in the back of my calf. I was glad she hadn’t been closer, and I was glad the others had tried to use their powers on me rather than simply stabbing me as I passed by. If that girl had slashed a half inch deeper, I would have been hamstrung. The pain was intense.
    “Killer!” the schoolgirl cried after me. It was the last word I heard from any of them. They all vanished, to be replaced more familiar surroundings. I was back inside the Lucky Seven. Judging by the shattered glass and blood on the floor, I knew I was in the same room where Jenna and I had spent a night together. The dead cultist was still gone, as was Detective McKesson.
    Hissing with pain, I quickly tended to the sliced meat of my calf muscle. Fresh blood dribbled down my leg onto the carpet—which had already been soaked by the first cultist I’d met that night.
    Someone stepped through space after me. He was blurry, but I thought I recognized that long, lank hair. It was the cult leader, and I was surprised to see him. I hadn’t figured any of them would have the balls to follow me. Even working their little tricks together, they’d not managed to nail me—a fact that had left me relieved but baffled. I pulled my gun and aimed it at him, figuring I could blast him thesecond he walked into full view. Just like the Gray Men, he should be vulnerable the moment he came fully into this place. Whatever his trick was, I didn’t think he would have time to pull it off.
    He stood there, not quite coming out into the room. I stared and aimed at him, my finger twitching on the trigger. I didn’t want to blink and give him a moment’s advantage. I wondered if he was waiting for more of his crew to come through to offer support. If they all stepped through the rip together, they might be able take me. But it would cost them.
    More figures did not appear, however. The lead cultist spread his hands wide. Was this some kind of gesture requesting a truce? I laughed and aimed my gun at his gut. He wasn’t going to trick me so easily.
    In response, he took out his gently curved blade and dropped it. I didn’t see where it landed, it could have been anywhere on their side or mine. I had a thought then: if he stepped backward, would he go back to the cellar, or someplace else? His little rip was shrinking and dying in color like a cooling fire. Did they really feed these things with blood? I didn’t know, but I supposed anything was possible.
    The figure gestured to me, signaling that I should put away my weapon as he had done. I raised my free hand, extended my middle finger, and gave him a gesture of my own. I waved it around so he was able to see it, even if I was a shimmering ghost to him.
    Finally, he decided to chance it. He spread his hands widely apart. Slowly, he stepped forward into my space.
    I snarled as he entered the room. I almost fired—it was a close thing. Part of me urged my finger to squeeze the trigger, but it was hard to do. In