Free Guilty Blood by F. Wesley Schneider

though.
    The beam of light sliced through the greenhouse, tainted yellow by the filthy glass. I could hear the guard's ominous footsteps from beyond. I imagined that I could tell his purpose from his steps, that he sounded like he was still unsure and not striding with intent. I filched as a stray leaf—or worse, maybe a rodent—brushed my ankle in the dark. Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I refused the impulse to jerk away and investigate. Just a few minutes more and I'd be out of here, and if I kept calm, maybe not in the grip of some two-copper lot watcher.
    Then it grabbed me. Not a rat. Whatever it was had hands, rough, strong hands that were instantly on my ankles, pulling on my claves, and tugging upon my belt. Too many hands even, small but tenacious with their many tight grips. I stared into the dark furiously as I squirmed, unable to see what had me. Instantly I forgot the precariousness of my situation and thrashed, kicking out, but feeling only the rustle of leaves and the snapping of twigs under my boots. What the Hells had a hold of me!
    I managed not to give voice to my rising panic or the stream of curses coursing through my mind. Conflicting fears vied for priority, one demanding silence lest I be discovered, the other seeking only escape from whatever had me.
    The latter won. I'd gladly take a few nights in jail over being dragged off in the clutches of whatever was trying to claim me.
    Rolling onto my back and kicking both legs up something came loose, and I was able to squirm a little ways from my attacker. The whole greenhouse seemed to be shaking, and around me I could just make out leaves and some thorny bush that had toppled over me, disguising even the barest hint of the thing with a hundred hands. Then it was back at my feet, pulling away at my right boot. I slammed down hard with the heel of my left and I felt something crack, but that was all. Nothing cried out, nothing relented, still it grabbed and grasped, relentlessly climbing my body, seemingly seeking my throat.
    Some part of me screamed as light fell upon me outside, hazy through the glass, but enough to give me a glimpse of what had me. Confusion mingled with panic as all I saw was a toppled vine, a thick, winding creeper covered in broad leaves, fallen across much of my legs. What kind of fool was I to get so tangled in some common root?
    Then it moved. As if detecting the light in its own senseless way, several leaves rising in attention like the heads of alerted serpents. It didn't seem to relish competition for its prey, and suddenly the deadly vine jerked forward, flinging an arm covered with snapping, grasping leaves at my face. I grabbed for it as best I could, and instantly three bloodless grips locked upon my arm, tendrils and underdeveloped sprigs knotting around me like dozens of tiny constrictors.
    I heard the greenhouse door screech open, saw the watchman's light fall full upon me, felt the dozens of leafy hands yanking me down, pinning me so the thing might more easily squeeze the life from my body. My frayed composure shattered. Throwing my head back I screamed in the face of the perplexed watchman, "Get it the hell off of me!"



Chapter Five: Fateful Lot
    My escort, one of an army of dour black-clad clones that tromped automatically through the Ardis Department of Constables, surprisingly unhanded me a step before reaching the station's heavy front doors. The first thing I'd learned after my utterly dispassionate arrest and processing was that not only did no one here care that I'd committed a crime, no one especially cared about my reasons. Or me at all, in fact. Every patrolman I encountered—a difficult number to guess considering their identical uniforms—went about their duties in the same malaise. It was like the whole department suffered from a reoccurring boil, the habitually lancing of which had changed from a matter of medical care to a boring chore.
    Wherever we were going, at least it wasn't the