Chapter 56: Another Backwoods Blowhard from the Four Hosts

Lucan gritted his teeth, drove his body-shielding vitae into a protective dome, and braced the pale-cyan giant hand, covering himself and Wren together, shouting at the top of his lungs: "Mr. Leyton, please, don't take offense! Nathan had something come up—he sent the goods ahead first. It was no slight on you!"

Lysander ignored Lucan's pleading entirely, his face twisting, edged with something almost gleeful, as he hammered his bond-power harder, trying to smash through the shield.

The Raging Gale had originally had other people in charge of this affair—two batches of them, in fact. The first officer had sent two rookies to pull Nathan into the Raging Gale; the operation failed, headquarters ordered him back to report, and he was reassigned somewhere far harsher. The second officer was a laid-back type, who handed the contact work to Lucan, hoping to hit the target through a cooperation model instead.

Lysander had recently finished practicing a bloodborn-kindred martial art. Coming out of retreat and learning of the matter, he decided the terms promised to Nathan were far too generous, and personally took the field to renegotiate and tear up the original contract. He'd prepared a new one for Nathan with terms ten times harsher—capping him at a few thousand starlings and padded with compensation clauses—fully intending to put this clueless young-generation bloodborn firmly in his place.

Nathan's failure to show felt, to him, like the perfect pretext to force Nathan into line—so no matter how Lucan explained, it was "I'm-not-listening, I'm-not-listening, I'm-not-listening..."

Lucan was no match for Lysander in strength—he wasn't a combat-type bloodborn to begin with. After a few minutes of grim holding, his bond-power was near collapse, and all he could do was shout: "The fault is mine—Mr. Leyton, just lock me up! Wren has nothing to do with any of this; she's only delivering for Nathan. Let her go, how about it?"

Lysander gave a vicious grin: "What do I care who's connected to him and how? I grab my hostages, Nathan comes to sign the new contract, and I let everyone go. Otherwise... well, you know my temper—I can't promise what might happen!"

Throughout all this, Wren had stayed perfectly composed—content inside Lucan's aether-shield, showing no intention of joining in. Only when she heard Lysander talk of taking hostages did she give a light laugh and say: "And how exactly were you planning to make something happen to me?"

Lysander shot her a look, his smile going colder: "You'll know soon enough!"

Wren made a light clasping motion with both hands and cried out crisply: "That'll be tricky!"

A storm of razor petals went spinning around her body, and in a single instant passed clean through Lucan's shield. Sharp beyond compare, they sliced the pale-cyan giant hand into wisps of drifting cyan aether with laughable ease.

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Wren's left hand pinched up as her right chopped out in a hand-blade; the petals became a whirling blizzard of razor blossoms and slammed into the second pale-cyan giant hand Lysander—seeing the way things were going—had thrown up in a hurry. This time both sides gave everything. Wren's petal storm drove straight through, cleaving Lysander's pale-cyan hand apart and crashing into the overbearing, bossy, girly bloodborn himself, blasting him flying sideways.

Lysander sprayed several mouthfuls of blood, slammed into one of the moonlight booths, and knocked it flying. He rolled twice, fought his way up off the ground, eyes pure venom, and snarled: "You've made me angry now, you little bitch! I'll show you what it means to wish you were dead..."

Lysander's bond-power abruptly doubled; the faint phantom of a bizarre ape rose behind him. His smile went grotesque as he hissed out cold breath—he'd brought out his war-beast, and if anything the rage drained away, replaced by a slow drawl: "This is my war-beast: the Goliath Bloodborn Ape! You'll learn how nasty it is soon enough!"

Lucan, alarmed and appalled, shouted: "Wren, run! I'll hold him off!"

Wren made a vague five-fingered grab, couldn't hold back a snort of laughter, and said: "Really no need! Nathan gave me something good just now—let me open your eyes too!"

Lysander was ramping his bond-power to build an overwhelming presence when he felt a light tug from outside his body—and the Goliath Bloodborn Ape behind him tore free and flew straight into Wren's hand.

Lysander flat-out froze, staring helplessly as Wren's kick landed square in his face—he didn't even think to dodge.

Wren punted Lysander clean into the air, gave Lucan a radiant smile and a little wave, and drifted off, unhurried and composed.

Lucan looked down at the kicked-senseless Lysander, spat, and slipped away too—neither of them spared him another thought. It was a Moon Coffee waiter who eventually came over, shaking his head and muttering with a touch of contempt: "Another backwoods blowhard from the Four Hosts. Thinks he's heaven's own genius, so he comes to Greyhaven to make trouble. Do they seriously not know that on Lombard Row, without the Concord sigil ring, your strength gets suppressed to ten percent?"

The waiter hauled Lysander up, dragged him into Moon Coffee's kitchen, dumped him in a cage, and went back to his own business.

Nathan drilled with the team for two-plus hours before the coach, satisfied, finally called it and sent everyone home. Wren hadn't come back, and worry was creeping in; calls went nowhere—Lucan's line was eternally out of service, Wren's was permanently mid-call. Heart racing, Nathan walked out the school gates and made straight for Lombard Row.

By the time he reached Moon Coffee, he was long, long late—Lucan and Wren were naturally nowhere to be found.

More calls, still no connection; Nathan spun in frantic circles, his imagination running wild through every possible answer—each one seeming possible and impossible at once.

Not daring to stray far from Moon Coffee, Nathan circled the café's perimeter. Rounding into the back alley, he caught someone climbing out through the kitchen's rear window—hands and feet clumsy, stumbling headfirst into a trash can, groaning for a good while without managing to climb out.

Nathan was decent-hearted enough; he hurried over and hauled the man out—a clean-looking but faintly girlish young man. The moment the man saw Nathan, fury flared in his eyes, but he didn't blow up—instead he smothered the killing intent, cold and dark, and wheezed at the boy: "Could you help me? Carry me out of Lombard Row?"

The request was a little odd. Nathan asked: "Where are you headed? I can take you."

The young man grunted a couple times: "Anywhere's fine as long as it's off Lombard Row. I don't like this street."

Still not getting it, Nathan simply supported the young man to the subway station. Good deeds were one thing, but he wasn't a total pushover—once he'd delivered the man to the subway, he meant to head back to Moon Coffee and see if he could find Wren and Lucan.

Nathan never noticed that the moment the girlish young man reached the subway station, his body turned supple and strong—but he kept up the weak act, glaring murder at the boy's back...