The tree. It killed things. It was big enough and mean enough to kill people if it wanted. And it was sentient. It had tried to talk to me, if my vision was an indication. A knight on a horse carrying a Soulwood banner.Oh. No. The Green Knight? His weapon a staff made from fire-hardened wood? Was the Arthurian tale a reality? Maybe. I swallowed down the bile that rose up my throat and said, “Call the police. You got no choice, Sam. Larry attacked an officer of the law. It’ll be on the security camera at PsyLED. Photo evidence. You cut me free and I’ll—”
Sirens cut the dawn air. Cars tearing into the church grounds. Skidding to a stop. Doors opening. Occam shouting, “Arms up! Get on your knees!” A growl entering his voice. “Get on your knees!”
Rick shouted, his voice overlapping, “PsyLED! On your knees! On your knees!”
“Do it!” T. Laine shouted. “Put down your weapons!”
The churchmen started quoting their constitutional rights to the cops. Loudly. I shouted, trying to be heard over the clamor. “I’m here! I’m okay!”
Rick shouted, “Don’t do it, farm boy. On your knees!”
Sam said, “Nell?” Fear and violence in his words. Churchmen, two wereleopards, a witch, and too many guns.
I sobbed once, hard. My relief was potent, overpowering the last of the bloodlust, as much because I had been saved as because I hadn’t killed Larry. To the tree, I whispered, “You’un gots to let me go now. I’m safe.”
“I said, on your knees!” Occam growled.
“Nell!” Rick shouted again, his voice catty. He was about to shift.
T. Laine shouted something that sounded like,“Cactus est somnum.”
Sam said, softly, “No...”
I felt bodies hit the ground, solid thumps. A unidirectional sleep spell had hit the churchmen.
The leaves beneath me quavered and the rock-pocked soil juddered and shook. The vines protecting me rolled back. I rotated my hips to sit upright.
Occam knelt beside me. His eyes were glowing the gold of his cat. “Nell?”
“I’m tied up. My arms are numb. Cut me free.”
“Jeez. Your fingers are blue.”
I felt/heard something grinding, a peculiar rubbery sound, and then the bonds around my wrists snapped free and pain shot up my arms and down to my fingers. The awful pain in my shoulders eased, to be replaced with a different kind of pain as my numb arms dangled helplessly. Occam sliced through the silver duct tape holding my ankles together on top of my socks and work boots. He sheathed the blade and carried me to his fancy car, opened the passenger door, and placed me inside. I closed my eyes, sick with vertigo.Concussion. From somewhere a cool cloth wiped my face clean of blood and vomit. I had a quick thought of a cat tongue and managed a smile I didn’t explain.
Occam took my hands and, gently, began to peel off the tape. A strong smell of solvent made my eyes water as heworked the tape off my wrists. The cleaning burned, but I didn’t say anything as he peeled. It had to be done and, unlike on TV and movies, taking duct tape off wasn’t an easy thing. The smell faded and he began to massage my fingers and wrists, working the circulation back into them.
“Nell?”
I got my eyes to open without throwing up.
Rick LaFleur was kneeling beside Occam near the open door, concern on his face. “How bad are you? I don’t smell much blood.”
I knew better than to lie. “I’m hurt. Concussion. Hands without circulation too long. But not anything that needs the hospital.” Hospital meant the paranormal ER of the University of Tennessee Medical Center. They couldn’t help me. They didn’t know what I was. They wanted to study me. “No hospital,” I repeated and closed my eyes, sick to my stomach. Occam continued to massage my hands and lower arms. “Ow, ow, ow, ow.”
“Feeling’s coming back,” Occam said, his voice rough with his cat. “It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
“It hurts like fire ants and hot peppers, but don’t stop.”
“The guy who took you?” Rick asked. “Is he here?”
“The one still trapped with thorns is him. Larry Aden.” I got my eyes open again and indicated the prison over him.
An expression crossed Rick’s face too fast to be certain, but he looked... fiercely delighted. “Well, well. The one who tried to take our Mud?” He had gotten my message the day Larry came by and I fired into the ground. Rick didn’t wait for me to answer. He kicked at the man’s foot.
“Make the tree let him go, Nell, sugar,” Occam murmured. “We got more witnesses coming.” His long-fingered hand rested on my arm, skin to skin. I was cold, icy with shock, and wanted to curl up against his heat, but this wasn’t the time.
“Let him go,” I whispered to the rootlets that confined Larry. When nothing happened I added, “We’ll take him for punishment.”
