Usually the Bridge sounded like a favorite grandmother at twilight, whispering softly to lull him to sleep—the faint echo of a songbird on the edge of his hearing. Pleasing susurrations that Errol could ignore, like a babbling brook next door.

Here, on the doorstep of her domain, the Bridge thundered like a waterfall.

Return to me, child.

Errol huddled as close to the cabling as he could, his pack spread over his shoulders like a blanket. He had passed from uncontrollable shivers to a quiet numbness that seemed almost pleasant by comparison. Sleep hovered on the fringes of his consciousness, inviting him to give in and rest. Deep inside, a voice warned him that surrender meant death, but it was so tempting to sleep . . .

Gritting his teeth, Errol forced his eyes open. He hung suspended by his harness, hands free to rummage through his pack. After what felt like an eternity, he found what he was looking for: a loop of thin wire with wooden handles, the last resort of a thief who must kill rather than be killed. He pulled the garrote from the pack, fingers clumsy with the cold, and wrapped the wire between two of the cables.

Satisfied the wire was touching either end of the two cables, he poured forth his voltage stream in a weak but steady trickle. The wire glowed with light, then faltered. He summoned all his reserves and increased the flow. Heat radiated out from the wire in a thin wave, then faded away again as he lost focus.

Errol started to shake, but not from the cold. Anger flooded his veins.

Fueling the stream with his fury, Errol ran more current into the wire, pushing as hard as he could. Teeth clenched, back arched, he strained to burn through the filament in front of him to produce more heat. Even his toes curled with the exertion, and the light blazed, blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut and kept feeding the flame, soaking in the heat from the makeshift lamp he’d created.

Lances of pain hit his fingertips like needles. A thousand pinpricks of fire pierced through the chill as he started to thaw. Groaning, he focused on the pain, drawing more strength into his current, but the agony inside was even worse than the tingling in his hands.

His breathing degenerated into ragged gasps for air. Each icy inhale felt like a knife in his lungs. He wanted to stop. Everything in him screamed to give up, to just end the pain and curse the day of his birth and die already.

A tremor in the Bridge broke his concentration. He lapsed for a moment, shaking. The light dimmed, but didn’t die. His spirit still fed the stream, willing heat and life into his body.

Again he felt a pulse of energy deep in the Bridge, like the entire structure was struggling against itself. All at once it grew still, at peace again, and a surge of warmth washed over him in a wave of power, dispelling the winds and rain. Even the clouds evaporated fully around him. Up above, he could see the stars, glimmering in the black velvet of the sky.

Don’t be afraid, child. I’m watching over you. I will lend you my strength while I can.

Power rushed over Errol as the words resonated in his soul. The voltage stream flared in response, blazing like the sun. He turned his face from the overwhelming light and heat. Sparks danced along the wire until it burst in a tiny blossom of fire.

Errol started climbing again, almost running up the cable. He felt reinvigorated—remade. New strength flowed through him, wild and urgent, vast as the sea. He hauled himself to the top of the tangled web of cables and slammed open the metal door, shattering its seal of rust.

Inside, he began to run. The Stormorb was still two days’ journey deeper into the Bridge, at least, and he’d already lost too much time. His team would catch up. They were stronger and better-prepared. He’d only slowed them down.

Guilt nagged at his conscience, but he repeated his new mantra. He would only slow the others down. He hadn’t seen them before the icy storm hit the Bridge. Stopping to look for them now would waste time and energy. Besides, they were experienced and resourceful. Surely they had found a way.

And if not, his orders from Indara were clear. He could still finish the mission. In fact, he might even find it easier all alone. The Bridge would help him. She hadn’t spoken to him when the others were nearby, particularly the cleric. He could sense her fear of him. Even though he could be a weapon against the parasite that burned in her, he was still a danger to her kind.

Free me from this disease, child. I will care for you—I have always cared for you, even if you couldn’t hear me. Your father ran from here, unable to bear the burden, but I know that you have my strength. Come, free your mother.

=+=

Rashana’s eyes flickered open. Her forehead rested against a stone wall. She leaned back and shrieked when she realized that her hands were inside the wall, buried up to her elbows, and then she screamed again when she looked down and saw nothing but boiling cloud banks far below. The last thing she remembered was climbing up the wall.

A pulse of memory flowed through her: a massive, scaled palm held out, a blade in the other hand. A flash of steel, a line of fire across the hand, a clenched fist; blood squeezed out of the hand, dripping over talons to drop off what looked like the edge of the world . . .

She blinked rapidly, looking down again in panic. What had happened? How had she ended up stuck in the wall? Calculations whirred in her mind, but she shut down the possibilities, trying to focus on the most recent memory. She glanced up, looking for the source of the blood.

Above her, a shimmering trail of light led off into the horizon, following the colossal steel girder a few feet from her head. She clawed her way up the wall and vaulted over to the beam to examine it more closely. The pure white color and the residual power immediately reminded her of Taras. She processed that information for a moment. He’d wanted her to follow.

Memory fragments glowed on the beam by her feet, tracing out a constellation of lights. Rashana gathered up the remnants of the night’s events, inhaling them before they faded away forever, feeding on the faint soul energy. She always felt more alive, less like a machine, after harvesting the bright globes of other people's experiences. Less like Indara.

A dark red orb that reminded her of Jarkoda filled in the rest of the details regarding the blood. He’d lingered at the camp site after the others had left, reciting an oath to pay his blood debt. He’d cut open his hand, blood trickling down onto her head, a deep rumble of resignation as the drops landed on her metal shell. The vision shifted and blurred. He walked away, leaving behind the impression of what he’d done.

Rashana reached up to touch the top of her head, running her fingers over the crusted flakes where Jarkoda’s blood had landed. If not for his last gesture, she might have remained on the side of the wall for eternity, until the stones themselves dissolved into dust.

She’d heard of soulbound who fed on blood, draining the living memories from victims, but it reminded her of spooky stories about vampires. Indara told her that they had fascinated her when she was a child. She had never drained a living person before, and even the thought made her queasy, although the energy would probably sustain her for weeks. Indara might do that, but Rashana wouldn't. She'd rather power down for good than betray her friends.

Better to wait for the globes to ripen and fall naturally, then harvest them like fruit ready to be boiled down into preserves. Her teammates had left the fruit of the previous day’s activities all over the ground, and she needed the energy to survive. She hesitated only a moment before feasting, a question of permission working through her thoughts. This new group of people were her friends, after all. She didn't want to intrude, but the fragments were fading fast.

Rashana jogged along, following the trail of light Taras had painted for her, savoring the memory scene where Taras and Errol talked about needing her help. They'd wanted to wait for her, despite the mission’s urgency. Even Taras liked her, and he seemed to hate everyone else. Maybe they could even be friends someday.

Whirring sounds expressed her pleasure at the thought; she didn't need to mimic human laughter for the sake of the team when they weren’t around her, and the spinning gears seemed more real to her than vocalizations. It was one of her few concessions to her machine side that didn’t make her feel guilty. Being fully human was overrated.

Sated on memories, she ran after the trail marker, inhaling its light essence as it led her deeper into the Bridge, flaring like a beacon to guide her way back to her friends.

Twenty minutes later, the trail exploded in a cacophony of colors, all entwined with the diseased grayish streaks she now associated with the Bridge. The Stormorb infected the place like a parasite, she was sure of it. They'd be rid of it soon. Maybe she could visit again after they cleaned up—this place suited her with its immense scale.

The trail blinked out, but Rashana found the wake Taras had left. Its turbulence almost pulled her under, but she mastered herself, retreating into her shell. Other trails crisscrossed the main path numerous times, already so faint that she couldn't follow them for longer than a few minutes. It looked like a natural convergence of unrelated events, but Rashana knew better. Someone, or some thing, had dragged them all in different directions, splitting the team apart.

She was already attuned enough to her friends to see their tails more strongly than the ones left by strangers, but they faded fast. Errol's seemed the oldest, and his passed up ahead, then straight up into the sky. Had he split off to find help?

In the air above her, a few silvery raindrops floated. She didn't recognize them as natural memory fragments, but all the same she jumped up and breathed in their essence. Rhae's song left its own fragments. Her presence strengthened in her mind, pulsing with a spike of fear and anticipation. Rhae’s vision flashed in her mind: winged creatures from up above, swooping down through the storm to scoop up the hunters and draw them away from the fight, weapons at the ready. The team had no time to argue before a second group joined the skirmish. The first team beckoned and pulled them. Their guidance wasn't optional, but it didn’t seem malicious . . .

The memory broke. Rashana slumped back.

Interference kept her from focusing on any one trail. Rhae seemed brightest in her head, but she couldn't quite catch the location. Even the ribbon of light Taras had left behind sputtered out, although he still pulled her like a lodestone. Three sets of trails, all of them rapidly fading as she stood there, frozen in indecision. She’d have to make her best guess and choose between the team members.

Rashana felt a stab of fear. What if she chose the wrong pathway? What if she turned off again before she could find them? What if—

Steeling herself against the prospect of failure, she made her choice.