Ecko Endgame by Danie Ware Read Free Book Online

I jus’ learned premonition.
    Plus five. Helluva download.
    Triqueta and Amethea laid the stretcher down, then they both backed right up as if the Lord would blow them into the middle of next week.
    Trembling with tension, nauseous with the unused adrenaline, Ecko crouched tight by the side of the steps – though, in the kit he had on, that was gonna do him fuck all good. He spun his telos again, his brain making silent wagers…
    It’s a clue, it’s a key. It’s the McGuffin who’s gonna gasp three words about where the bad guys’re at, then croak right here on the floor…
    But when one of Nivrotar’s long white hands pulled back the covering, he saw who it was.
    And he stopped.
    Holy shit.
    In that split-second of recognition, of pure, cold shock, his heart rate hammered protest. He was blinking fire, swallowing sand. Hers had been the very first voice he’d heard; she’d been there, the heart of The Wanderer, right from the start…
    His oculars flatlined, refused to work – he couldn’t process what he was seeing. His eyes were blinking, blinking.
    Shit!
    But another’s reaction was far, far stronger.
    And Ecko realised with some loopy, detached clarity that it hadn’t been Nivrotar that the two women had backed away from.
    “No.”
    The Bard’s voice was soft, like the first tremble of the coming tsunami.
    As he moved, even the city’s Lord gave him ground.
    “No…”
    Again, that reflexive denial – always,
always
the first reaction to death, like it would make some fucking difference. The potence of it shivered in the still air of the great hall, made shudders of the dust. Ecko had the creepiest feeling that if Roderick wanted, he could shatter the windows like an opera singer, bring the whole stone ceiling down in body-splatting chunks…
    Jesus Harry Christ. I know you got some London tech, dude, but what the hell…?
    For his life, though, he could not have moved.
    “No…”
    Louder this time, more a strike than a shiver. Roderick dropped to his knees by the stretcher, his long hands pulling the coverings away so he could see what had happened. He touched his fingers to her shrunken face, her thin shoulders, gently – as if he were afraid to hurt her, to wake her, afraid for her to be real.
    Hellfire and fucking damnation. What’s this, rise of the living dead, now? Zombie apocalypse time?
    But even Ecko’s savage humour was subdued; he said nothing aloud. He watched, his own denial still shouting at him, raw. Karine had been too vital, too real – too recent. This was all batshit, it had to be…
    “No.”
    The fourth time. It was a statement, the Bard’s voice still soft but gathering strength. He looked for a moment like he was going to pick the girl up, hold her to him and howl, but she was wasted and tiny, too fragile. Instead, he sat back on his heels – on his black London Converse – and looked at his shaking hands, touched them to his own face, the scarf across his jaw, as if to reassure himself it was still there.
    Okay. Here we go…
    But there was no roof-reaving bawl of doom. Instead, the Bard stayed like that for a moment – like he was some fucking bomb about to take out the building and all of them with it – and then he came to his feet in a single, marionette motion.
    His back was straight, his face now uncovered, revealing the seething, sensual, mechanical mess of his throat, and the blacklight veins that ran up and into his ears like maggots.
    For just a moment, the entire room watched him as if he would bring death to them all.
    “So.” His voice was a low rumble like a distant train. The hall thrummed with tension and acoustic. “This is our message, is it?”
    What?
    “That’s
it
?” Ecko’s words were out before he could stop them – their harsh rasp was a slap. All heads snapped to look at him. Uncomfortable under that many eyes, he sprang up the side of the steps and curled his lip, exposed black teeth. Grief manifested as anger, and he threw it back.