Free Sudden Backtrack: A Hollows Short by Kim Harrison

 
    SUDDEN BACKTRACK
    “T hat’s not Peth. That’s Kalla.” The hunter’s name slipped from Gally with an oily hatred, hot and simmering, just below the point of ignition. His hand clenched until the scars pulled, and Newt, standing beside him under the moonlit, fog-coated trees in the ever-after, turned with a smirk on her hunger-gaunt face.
    “You didn’t really believe they’d give us the courtesy of a conversation, did you?”
    “Yes. Yes, I did.”
    A flash of fond pity crossed her red, goat-slitted eyes. “They’ll never live up to your ideals, Gally. Their nobility is an ugly mask.”
    Indignant, he stared at her. “I don’t call them noble. They’re animals. Only animals can do the things they do.” That’s why they’d tried to kill them in the first place—and failed, failed miserably because of an ill-placed trust in a dream called the Goddess. There was no Goddess. Nothing could be that cruel.”
    “And yet you expect them to hold to their word. They still have a veil before your eyes, Gally. Break it. See them for what they are.”
    He knew what they were, and rubbing the tip of his severed thumb, he turned away, sending a questing thought out to find the six, no seven, other souls circling them, readying a trap. That’s all Kalla was here for, really, a margin of profit and a measure of respect for having recaptured Newt for the auction block.
    Well aware of it, Newt tugged the sleeves of her red robe down to hide the scar tissue around her thin wrists. It was Dali’s robe, and he was a great deal thinner and shorter than she, but Newt had been on the run the longest and her robe was threadbare, an embarrassment when trying to convince the “Goddess’s chosen” that the demons had a right to freedom.
    Fair and slim, Kalla waited beside the small fire with the confidence born of unaltered success. He was the elves’ best slaver, and they’d all felt the pain of his magic snuffing theirs. It took but a word to sunder their hold on the lines and make them helpless, and it was hard for Gally to stand even this close. But talk was not what they were here for, either.
    “How much longer will you make him wait?” he asked, and Newt’s smile became sly.
    “His men are not yet in position. If they aren’t close enough, the curse will act on Kalla alone. The more who take it up, the faster it will spread. A moment more.”
    Grimacing, Gally fidgeted. The scent of Kalla’s breakfast made his stomach scrape his backbone. Food and clean clothes waited if he’d walk forward with his head bowed and his hand extended for a slaver ring. The beating for having killed his master would be a momentary indignity, all too soon lost behind “Yes, Sa’han. Of course, Sa’han.” The pain of being sundered from the lines would grow until he’d relish the chance to do someone else’s bidding if only to ease the ache for a moment. The lines were power, but the demons would never travel them again. It had almost killed them, to an individual, the last time they’d tried.
    But as Kalla tossed the scraps of his meal to his dogs, Gally recalled the feel of the elf’s foot on his neck and his utter disregard. They were circling even now to capture them, and it took all his fortitude to remain where he was. He’d not leave Newt to deliver their curse alone. He would witness her success or failure. Otherwise, for at least a hundred years they wouldn’t know if it worked.
    “I told you I could do this alone,” she said as if reading his mind.
    “With five of us—,” he began.
    “There would be five of us dead,” she interrupted.
    “But why you!” he protested, voice hushed but intent. “We all know the curse. We helped you spin it. It will kill you if you invoke it alone. At least let me help.”
    Her narrow chin lifted, and her short red hair flared out like a mane. “No,” she said shortly. “If it’s fated to kill the one who spins it, then I’ll be the one to pay the cost. It’s my idea,