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There had never been anyone anything like Baanraak before. In the history of
his universe and his worldchain, he had been unique, though he had not
recognized his uniqueness for what it was until he discovered Molly and saw in
his reflection how different he was from the others he d mistaken for
brethren.
He would get to Molly through Lauren, talk to her through Lauren. He could not
approach her directly she would attempt to kill him, and at least one of them
would die again. Maybe both of them. He needed an intercessor. He needed
Lauren. It was time. He stood with wings outstretched, reveling for one final
moment in the shape of his flesh, in the way he belonged in this world of his
making. Then he closed his eyes and dug talons into the rock and drew into his
body the power that would twist his form, shrinking himself into the rough
approximation of a human. He did not worry about the details he would provide
himself with those when he reached Earth. For the moment, he wanted only to
displace as much body mass as he could and to approximate general shape, so
that when he found the identity he wanted, he could take it with minimal loss
of time. He could not just compress his true mass into the necessary size this
disguise needed to be perfect, and perfect meant not leaving footprints four
inches deep when walking across lawns, or collapsing chairs when sitting in
them.
The pain devoured Baanraak he shifted and re-formed every cell in his body,
stripping away everything not essential, literally ripping himself apart, cell
from cell, and the fire tore him and clawed him until he collapsed on the rock
in a heap. He trembled and panted, while the fire raged through his flesh.
The pain became bearable again and he stood up a roughly human thing, with two
crude arms with workable hands and two crude legs with stump feet, a torso, a
lumpish head, and rudimentary eyes, with his resurrection ring buried all the
way inside him.
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When the pain ebbed to the point where Baanraak could think again, he got to
his feet. He was small and weak, no longer simply a rrôn disguised, with mass
and power at his call. Amputated in every direction, wingless and tailless and
short-necked and small-bodied not just in appearance but in fact, raw and
fresh, his flesh sought matter that it could absorb, that he might rebuild
himself. He had to fight against his body s ache to return to its true form.
He stilled himself. He had done this before the Night Watch all did it when
working in secret, in places where they had to not just pass as human but be
human. It had been a long time, but he was no stranger to flesh other than his
own.
He stilled himself. In this time spent in his own little domain, he had
abandoned discipline. He had let himself play, and had fallen into the habits
of childhood, and had lived for a time in a fantasy. No more. He was Baanraak,
at whose name the very Night Watch trembled.
He was Baanraak, who drank the death of worlds.
He was Baanraak. And he was going hunting.
He shook off the feeling of weakness that assailed this new flesh. He embraced
the pain and accepted it; pain had made him, and pain would in the end give
him those things he sought. He ran the live fire through himself, letting it
bite himself, and created for himself a man-size mirror, silver-backed, square
and sturdy. He set it in a stone frame and melded the frame into the living
rock of his perch. When he did not need it anymore, he would destroy it. But
it would be convenient to have a waiting gate into which he could slip at
need.
He rested his fingers against the glass and sent his mind spinning through the
void, searching for one very specific man: young, single, attractive, rich,
powerful, admired, corrupt& and conveniently located. He found that man in
Hahlen Geoffrey Nottingham, well-diversified tech entrepreneur and billionaire
with his main offices in Research Triangle Park in Raleigh, North Carolina.
Nottingham was working late. He had everything Baanraak needed conveniently at
hand.
Baanraak waited until Nottingham s secretary, also working late, and at that
instant discussing some task with her boss, went back to her own office. Then
Baanraak stepped through the gate right in front of Nottingham s office door,
closed the door, and locked it.
He turned, and Nottingham stared at him, frozen with shock and disbelief and
horror for just one instant. Of course Baanraak didn t look human. He looked
like a mass of raw pink flesh on a two-legged armature. Nottingham took in a
breath to scream, and in the split second before he did, Baanraak reached into
Nottingham s mind and silenced him.
No, he said into his prey s thoughts. Neither that nor the buzzer to call her.
He locked Nottingham s muscles.
He walked across the office, many-windowed, plush-carpeted, and vast, around
the fine teak-and-ebony desk, to the man in his silk suit and his club tie,
and reached out lumpish fingers and settled them over Nottingham s face.
He took his time. Baanraak absorbed Nottingham s memories: names and details
of friends and associates, knowledge of places, links to accounts and
passwords, connections to business deals, and dirty little secrets. At the
same time, he absorbed Nottingham s cellular information body composition,
blood type, bone structure, skin composition, finger and retinal patterns,
hair structure and composition and growth patterns. When he was done, he wore
a perfect overlay of Nottingham; he knew everything Nottingham knew, could do
Nottingham s business without missing a step if he chose, could not be
discovered as a fraud by any means available to normal human beings. He was
Nottingham if Nottingham had been a god. Silver and gold still marked him, of
course; immortality marked him. But he could hide those marks from most of
those who could read them. He could pass among even the most cautious of old
gods, the most paranoid of dark gods. Further, he could pass in a high enough
circle that he was basically free to do as he chose, surrounded by people
whose job it was to cover for him and make him look good.
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 My problem now being, he said in Nottingham s refined, upscale Charleston
Battery accent,  that I don t need two of us.
Nottingham s eyes bulged, and again he tried to scream, but Baanraak didn t
let him.
 Your screaming would pose problems for me.
Baanraak stood naked beside Nottingham s desk, and stroked Nottingham s cheek
with a finger.  You ve been very good at being a very bad boy. You re about to
get even better at it. Your friends will be astonished. But you won t be
around to enjoy it.
Nottingham s body ignited with a dark fire, an absence of light that flickered [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]