Lane stepped through the elevator doors. Energy crackled across her skin. It boiled inside her, eager to be out. She knew she ought to be tired after the fight, but she wasn’t. Her shoulder pads lay cool and hard against her shoulders. Her rough Nomex scratched against her skin. She watched her arm as she stepped through, sure she would see sparks rolling across it.
The weight of silent stares snapped her back to her surroundings. She wasn’t standing in an elevator. She stood in an antechamber. An enormous pair of ornate doors dominated the far side of the room. To one side of the doors a young man sat behind an old-fashioned wooden desk. Atop the desk lay a sheathed sword. Behind the young man stood an armored figure, a handle sticking up over his shoulder.
Something was wrong. She could see the pair before the doors, but she couldn’t tell how far away they were. The walls on the sides of the room weren’t there. Instead, numberless glowing red eyes hovered above faintly seen fangs. The sounds of distant panting from a thousand, thousand throats filled the room. She sniffed, expecting the smell of dogs, or of wild animals. Instead, she smelled nothing but old blood.
Lane shook her head to clear it of distractions. She was here for a reason. Nothing could be allowed to go through the door behind her. She needed to stop whoever was in charge. The redhead at the desk looked like he might be the one in charge. A quick glance around showed her more glowing eyes clustering where the sides of the room should be. They stretched off into infinity, shifting slightly like predators preparing to pounce.
She stepped back to the doorway, sliding her bar around in a circle. The ends of her circle tapped the sides of the elevator door. From where she stood, Lane could reach anyone trying for the gate. Satisfied with her position, she called out to the seated figure.
“Hey! Are you the one in charge here?”
Laughter, more amused than mocking, preceded his reply. “That’s not how this goes, little one. You’re supposed to make grandiose claims of how you’re going to stop me. That will get everyone’s hopes up. Then we crush you, they despair, and then we end the world. Please do try to get it right. Let’s have another go, shall we?”
“What the heck are you talking about?”
The seated figure heaved a histrionic sigh. He reached into a drawer in his desk, and Lane crouched, ready to dodge, hoping to spoil his aim. She was oddly disappointed when he drew forth a simple remote control. The redhead pointed the control at the wall behind him, and three large flat screen televisions simply formed out of thin air. They hung unsupported, one to either side of the door and one centered in front of it.
The young man’s voice took on the singsong patter of a game show host. “You see, Lane, you’ve been a pawn in my plan all along. All three of you have. Your captain, Artemis,” a gesture, and a picture of Mary as the Knight appeared on the right-hand screen. “Your little friend, Gwendolyn,” another gesture, and the left-hand screen displayed Gwen sitting in her chair, support spades and laptop trays extended, the air around her literally glowing with light reflected from the screens. “And most of all, you,” a final gesture, and the central screen lit up with a picture of Lane in her Nomex, crowbar in hand, welding mask tilted back, her hair blowing free behind her like a cape.
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Lane tried to interrupt, but the young man wouldn’t shut up. “Look at the three of you. Young, strong, heroic. You’ve fought my forces, even destroyed some of the leaders of our little cabal. You’ve got us quaking in our immortal boots.”
Lane was confused. The man had an army of somethings, a knight at his back, and he was talking about how dangerous she was. His claim of fear didn’t fit with his laid-back tone of voice, either. The longer she stood here, the more eyes crowded in from either direction. They even piled upward.
Her voice sounded uncharacteristically hesitant, even to her. “OK, then. Give up, go home, and I’ll let you go.”
“Oh, you’re wonderful! I almost wish you hadn’t been born to that watery tart.”
The armored figure touched the youth’s shoulder. His voice echoed out from his great helm. Despite the echo, it was maddeningly familiar. “Stop wasting time, Loki.”
“Fine, Galahad. Do I have your attention, little girl?”
“Yeah?”
“Good. Those three feeds are being forced onto every television screen in the world. The world has been watching you since you faced down Surtr and Annan. They watched you destroy Morgan’s demon army. They watched you three step through the portals. They watched as your friend Gwen,” Loki flicked a wrist, and Gwen’s screen fast forwarded to her writhing in pain, surrounded by a cloud of night, “was captured by Morgan. They watched as our pawn Artemis,” another wrist flick, and Mary’s image flickered forward to show her naked and glowing, struggling against invisible bonds, as emaciated rotting hands pawed at her, “was taken by Mordred. Once I capture you, we’ll feed you to the Hunt, torture and sacrifice your Knight in shining armor, and break the mind of your little sorceress friend.”
“Yeah. Come on over here and say that, why don’t ya?”
Loki shook his head, lifting his hand to cover his face. “Is that the best banter you can come up with? Now I know why we didn’t choose you. Galahad, end this farce.”
“As you wish, Lord.”
Galahad stepped around the desk. Even accounting for how much his armor padded him, he was heavy set. He walked toward her slowly, his steps echoing through the room. Beyond the handle over his shoulder, a sword and dagger rode his hips. Lane set herself, ready to spring forward and attack the moment he came into her reach. She couldn’t leave the door uncovered, but a lunge and recovery shouldn’t allow anything through. Once she’d stopped him, she’d see how well that dagger was balanced for throwing.
Lane tensed as Galahad came to a halt just out of her reach. She shifted slightly, readying herself for his attack. She spun her crowbar slowly; once it picked up momentum she felt ready. Idly she thought about leaping on him, but unless the old dents and dings on his armor were faked, he would be able to keep her from the portal if she did.
He lifted his hand. She spun the crowbar behind her back and to her side, shifting it from hand to hand as she did. His hand gripped his helmet rather than the bulky handle over his shoulder. It was an old-style great helm, obscuring everything except the warrior’s eyes.
His eyes tugged at her, familiar somehow. His hand pulled his helmet up, off. Behind it…
Lane’s breath caught in her throat. Unheard, unnoticed, unimportant, her crowbar rang as it bounced off the ground behind her and clattered to a standstill. Her gut clenched with sudden pain. Her knees went weak, and she collapsed, falling to the carpet. Tears threatened as she lay there. She denied them, refused to let them flow.
Lying there, fighting back sobs and tears and screams of pain, one word vomited forth, “Why?” When no answer came back, it blurted forth again, “Why, Gil, why?”