sniper’s scope. This time, Margot saw the muzzle flare from one of the roofs, but again, she didn’t have time to do anything but dodge.
As it turned out, she didn’t have to.
A shadowy figure tossed the sniper over the side of the building, and he crashed down through the top of a car next to Margot. He landed in a heap, to the sound of crunching plastic and glass, and then he didn’t move again. Mitsuru Aoki ported down after him, appearing next to Margot in a flash of sparks and light, a belated isolation field sinking down along with her, silencing the bedlam all around them, the cries of the dying and the wounded.
At that point, Margot remembered to look around, but the Anathema had already fled.
Mitsuru gazed at her with burning red eyes, giving her an appraising look. She also wore a heavy jacket that hung to her knees, made of woven Kevlar, but Mitsuru’s coat wasn’t shredded and punctured and hanging off one shoulder by a thread like Margot’s.
“Report,” Mitsuru snapped.
Margot reported, crisp and concise, as she had been trained to do.
Everything had been blurred since she had gotten off the plane. Margot had gone straight into the field, no time for sleep, only a telepathic briefing from Alistair. He implanted a map of the city and images of the targets in her head, as well as a dossier and a working knowledge of Cantonese and Mandarin. Then she had been set loose on the back alleys of Shanghai. Margot hadn’t seen anything or anyone even vaguely suspicious until she had been attacked, without even the pretense of an isolation field, a nicety that even the Witches never dispensed with. She briefly outlined her concerns about who they were actually fighting – namely the Anathema, but Mitsuru nodded as if she had expected to hear that.
“Are you alright?” Mitsuru asked, nodding at her shoulder.
Margot poked at her shoulder experimentally. The wound had crusted over, and part of the scab came off when she touched it, revealing cold, white skin underneath. She pressed it with her razor sharp fingernail until she drew blood, but Margot didn’t feel a thing.
“I am very difficult to injure,” Margot said, considering whether or not to abandon her shredded jacket. She wasn’t entirely sure that the Lycra long-sleeve that she had worn beneath it was still capable of preserving her modesty. “My fighting style is easy to misinterpret.”
“I understand,” Mitsuru said, with surprising sympathy. “Can you move? The car should be here any moment.”
“I’m good,” Margot said, nodding, deciding to hold on to the remains of the jacket, settling for tearing the tattered sleeves off, making it something of a vest. “Where are we going?”
“We were hoping to draw them out,” Mitsuru admitted, walking briskly for the street. “This attack was the break we were waiting for. I acted as a telepathic conduit for Alistair, and he cracked that Anathema woman wide open. Alistair is tracking her remotely, to see where she runs. Even if she suspects that we are following her, eventually, she will have to attempt to return to base. Central will send a team to clean things up here, make sure nobody remembers this.”
Margot nodded, following Mitsuru back out to the street. There was a definite satisfaction in knowing that she had been the one to flush the Anathema out. It had to be another gold star in a folder somewhere, wherever they kept the records on the candidates for Auditor. Margot knew it was possible. Mitsuru had been elevated barely two months ago, and with Alice Gallow out indefinitely and Rebecca only sporadically available, the Audits department was desperately shorthanded. Shorthanded enough that she’d been working for them more often in recent weeks. Margot’s feelings on this were more mixed than she ever would have admitted publically.
She missed the security of the Academy; she missed all the people, even if she didn’t like most of them. She missed listening to Eerie
As it turned out, she didn’t have to.
A shadowy figure tossed the sniper over the side of the building, and he crashed down through the top of a car next to Margot. He landed in a heap, to the sound of crunching plastic and glass, and then he didn’t move again. Mitsuru Aoki ported down after him, appearing next to Margot in a flash of sparks and light, a belated isolation field sinking down along with her, silencing the bedlam all around them, the cries of the dying and the wounded.
At that point, Margot remembered to look around, but the Anathema had already fled.
Mitsuru gazed at her with burning red eyes, giving her an appraising look. She also wore a heavy jacket that hung to her knees, made of woven Kevlar, but Mitsuru’s coat wasn’t shredded and punctured and hanging off one shoulder by a thread like Margot’s.
“Report,” Mitsuru snapped.
Margot reported, crisp and concise, as she had been trained to do.
Everything had been blurred since she had gotten off the plane. Margot had gone straight into the field, no time for sleep, only a telepathic briefing from Alistair. He implanted a map of the city and images of the targets in her head, as well as a dossier and a working knowledge of Cantonese and Mandarin. Then she had been set loose on the back alleys of Shanghai. Margot hadn’t seen anything or anyone even vaguely suspicious until she had been attacked, without even the pretense of an isolation field, a nicety that even the Witches never dispensed with. She briefly outlined her concerns about who they were actually fighting – namely the Anathema, but Mitsuru nodded as if she had expected to hear that.
“Are you alright?” Mitsuru asked, nodding at her shoulder.
Margot poked at her shoulder experimentally. The wound had crusted over, and part of the scab came off when she touched it, revealing cold, white skin underneath. She pressed it with her razor sharp fingernail until she drew blood, but Margot didn’t feel a thing.
“I am very difficult to injure,” Margot said, considering whether or not to abandon her shredded jacket. She wasn’t entirely sure that the Lycra long-sleeve that she had worn beneath it was still capable of preserving her modesty. “My fighting style is easy to misinterpret.”
“I understand,” Mitsuru said, with surprising sympathy. “Can you move? The car should be here any moment.”
“I’m good,” Margot said, nodding, deciding to hold on to the remains of the jacket, settling for tearing the tattered sleeves off, making it something of a vest. “Where are we going?”
“We were hoping to draw them out,” Mitsuru admitted, walking briskly for the street. “This attack was the break we were waiting for. I acted as a telepathic conduit for Alistair, and he cracked that Anathema woman wide open. Alistair is tracking her remotely, to see where she runs. Even if she suspects that we are following her, eventually, she will have to attempt to return to base. Central will send a team to clean things up here, make sure nobody remembers this.”
Margot nodded, following Mitsuru back out to the street. There was a definite satisfaction in knowing that she had been the one to flush the Anathema out. It had to be another gold star in a folder somewhere, wherever they kept the records on the candidates for Auditor. Margot knew it was possible. Mitsuru had been elevated barely two months ago, and with Alice Gallow out indefinitely and Rebecca only sporadically available, the Audits department was desperately shorthanded. Shorthanded enough that she’d been working for them more often in recent weeks. Margot’s feelings on this were more mixed than she ever would have admitted publically.
She missed the security of the Academy; she missed all the people, even if she didn’t like most of them. She missed listening to Eerie
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