Mercedes Lackey - SE 1- Born To Run

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Born to Run

by Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely

coincidental.

thereof in any form.

A Baen Book

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-72110-0

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, March 1992

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Brilliant Press

Printed in the United States of America

DEDICATION

Dedicated to J.R. and Shirley Dixon, Ed and Joyce Ritche, and to all parents

with the vision to listen to what kids really wish for-and help them find it.

Thanks to the music of Icehouse (and to Iva Davies for being the visual

inspiration for Tannim), a-ha, Midnight Oil, Rush, Kate Bush, Alan Parsons,

Thomas Dolby (hope you get the keys to her Ferrari), Edvard Grieg, Shriekback,

David Bowie (past and present!), Billy Idol (for visceral fight-scene music),

Mannheim Steamroller, the Floyd, Michael Hedges, and the entire Narada Artists

catalogue, especially David Arkenstone and David Lanz-we could never have done

this one without you!

Special thanks also to Kevin Barry's Pub and Acadia Restaurant (run by none

other than the sparkling Trish Rodgers!), Trish Rodgers herself, the Buccaneer

Region SCCA, Roebling Road raceway, Professor Russ Barclay (for drilling

grammar into Larry's thick artsy skull lo these many years ago), and the

faculty, staff, and students of Savannah College of Art and Design (for

backing a long-haired hippy-freak dark horse).

MUSTANG SALLY

"Excuse me?" said a low, sexy, female voice.

Tannim jumped in startlement, and turned to face the barn door-and froze as he

saw who was standing there. His mind lodged on a single thought, unable to get

past it: It's her-it's her-it's her-

And it was: the woman who had haunted and hunted him through his dreams for

years. The woman he'd dreamed of this morning. Her. And she stood there,

calmly taking in his look of utter shock.

There was absolutely no doubt of it; she matched his dreams in every detail.

Gently curved raven-wing hair framed a face that he knew as well as he knew

his own. Amused emerald-green eyes gazed at him from beneath strong brows that

arched as delicately as a bit of Japanese brushwork.

"Excuse me," she said again in that throaty contralto. ". . . but I understood

that I could find someone here who works on Mustangs."

He looked past her and spotted her black Mustang standing in the midst of the

tall grass outside the barn door. "Not-for a long time," he said dazedly.

"Ah," she replied. Then her eyes widened as she looked past his shoulder, and

she stepped back in alarm.

Fear lanced him. He whirled to look. There was nothing there.

He turned back, and she was already gone. And so was her car.

Only then did his mind click back into gear, as he sprinted to stood where the

car had been. There was the imprint of four tires in the grass-but no track-

marks leading up to them. There was no sign that the car had actually been

driven through the grass to reach that spot, and there had been no sound of a

motor.

She was haunting him still, it would seem. . . .

Other Books in this series

The SERRAted Edge

Born to Run

Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon

Wheels of Fire

Mercedes Lackey & Mark Shepherd

When the Bough Breaks

Mercedes Lackey & Holly Lisle

Chrome Circle

Mercedes Lackey & Larry Dixon

Urban Fantasies

Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

Mercedes Lackey & Ellen Guon

Summoned to Tourney

Mercedes Lackey & Ellen Guon

Bedlam Boyz

Ellen Guon

ALSO BY MERCEDES LACKEY

FROM BAEN BOOKS

Bardic Voices: The Lark & the Wren

Bardic Voices: The Robin & the Kestrel

Bardic Choices: A Cast of Corbies

(with Josepha Sherman)

Fortress of Frost & Fire: A Bard's Tale Novel

(with Ru Emerson)

Prison of Souls: A Bard's Tale Novel

(with Mark Shepherd)

The Ship Who Searched

(with Anne McCaffrey)

Wing Commander: Freedom Flight

(with Ellen Guon)

If I Pay Thee Not in Gold

(with Piers Anthony)

CHAPTER ONE

A dark red Mustang perched beside the ribbon of highway, alone but for the

young man resting against its door. It was an unusual sight for such a place,

here where the shallow water of the wetlands reflected moonlight, and endless

silvered marsh grasses whispered in the breeze. The cicadas didn't care if the

man was there, nor did the night-birds, nor the foxes and raccoons-they were

used to the comings-and-goings of men in their loud machines, and would avoid

him. There would seem to be no reason for him to be stopped here-no smoke or

steam poured from beneath the nostrilled hood, no line of shredded rubber

marked a newly departed tire. A highway patrol officer would have been very

interested-if there had been one anywhere within twenty miles. And that, too,

was unusual; this close to Savannah, there should be police cruising this

stretch of road.

"One of these nights," griped Tannim to no one in particular, "I'll have a

normal drive, with nothing chasing me, pestering me, shooting at me . . . no

breakdowns, no detours, no country-western music, no problems. Peace, quiet,

and the road. No place to go, no one to save, no butts to cover except my

own."

Tannim pulled himself up onto his old Mach 1, faded black jeans shushing over

the hood. Its cooling engine tick-tick-ticked, radiator gurgling softly as it

relaxed from its work, the warm old American sheet metal satin-smooth and

familiar. He ran a hand through his long brown hair, catching fingers in his

uncountable ratty knots of curls, and snorted in cynical amusement. Casting

his eyes skyward, scratching at his scalp, he said wistfully, "Man. They keep

telling me, 'Y'knew the job was dangerous when ya took it.' Thanks for giving

me the job description after I've signed the contract, guys."

The cicadas answered him by droning on, unimpressed.

The road was deserted, the air clear, the bright country sky shining off of

the curved fenders. Tiny pinpoints of light twisted into sweeping contours

only to be swallowed up in the flat black intakes of the hood.

The beauty and peace of the evening softened his mood. No finer job in this

world, though. When it works out-wish Kestrel were here to help. He's better

at this than me. Tannim thought about his old friend from high school back in

Jenks, Oklahoma, with more than a twinge of regret-regret for Derek's curious

blend of talents, compassion, and guts. Derek Ray Kestrel was gifted not only

with a sexy name but with a knack for magic that just wouldn't quit. Deke

spent his time with his cars and guitars, now, and didn't do road work

anymore. Guess he didn't have the stomach for it. It can get gross enough to

freak a coroner. Damned if he didn't have more than just talent, though.

He gave up on his hair and adjusted his jacket, a third-hand Battlestar

Galactica fatigue he traded a Plymouth carburetor kit for. Both he and the

other kid thought they'd gotten the better deal. They were both right. Tannim

didn't know from carbs then, and had let go of a rare five-hundred-dollar

sixpack. Deke had sure given him a hard time about that! The other kid had no

idea how hard the battle-jackets were to get. Live and learn. He dug around in

one of the many pockets he'd sewn inside the jacket, and pulled out a cherry

pop, whistling along with the Midnight Oil tape on the Mach 1's stereo,

occasionally falling into key.

Decent night for a job, though. Not raining like last time, and no lightning

to dodge, either. Tannim was a young man, but he was not inclined to die that

way, despite the reckless pace he kept up. Better to run toward something than

away, he'd always thought, but the scars and aches all over his wiry body

testified that even a fiery young mage can be harmed by too much running. Or

perhaps, not running hard enough . . . He had been self-trained up to age

twenty, and then someone from elsewhen had taken him in and really shown him

the ropes of high magic. Their friendship had built before their

student/teacher relationship really began, Chinthliss admiring the boy's

brazen style, wicked humor, and dedication to the elusive and deadly energy of

his world's magic. That was, in fact, the reason Chinthliss had taken Tannim

on in the first place; it had not escaped the young mage that he and his

mentor were a great deal alike in many ways. There were a lot of words to

describe the two of them, the best of which were creative, crafty,

adventurous, virtuous-well, maybe not virtuous-but their many critics had

other choice adjectives, none flattering. Tannim had a way of taking the

simplest lesson and turning it around to befuddle his "master," who in turn

would trounce the boy with the next one, and giggle about it for a week. It

was Chinthliss who had given Tannim his name-it meant "Son of Dragons." It

fit, especially since he thought of Tannim as he would his own offspring.

Eventually, the lessons simply became jam sessions of experimenting, and

Tannim began teaching Chinthliss a thing or two. What was about to occur on

this lonely stretch of road was something he'd come up with himself years ago-

something that had scared the scat out of Chinthliss. It was the kind of "job"

he had done a couple of times with Deke Kestrel in tow. He unwrapped the

cherry pop and began chewing on it absent-mindedly, humming along with the

tunes. He crumpled the wrapper and slipped it into a pocket, and his humming

became a chant through clenched teeth.

He pulled his shoulders back and stretched, neck and back popping from road

fatigue, and let in the rush of energy that heralded a major spell. Around

him, the cicadas rose in pitch, to harmonize with Peter Garrett and the young

man's chanting. Harmonizing with Garrett was no small feat, and he noted it as

a good omen. He kept his arms raised toward the crescent moon overhead, and

his eyes perceived a subtle change in the starlight as he entered his familiar

trance.

His body went rigid, as if rigor mortis had suddenly frozen him in place.

To say that Tannim died then would be misleading-although he was not precisely

alive anymore either. The trance he entered was protected well, and he was

being monitored by otherworldly allies, but the young mage's soul was now

connected to his body by the thinnest of threads-much more tenuous than

anything most mages ever depended on during out-of-body work. Most of them

would have been terrified at the notion of trusting their lives to so fragile

a bond. But most mages weren't Tannim. He had been trusting his life and more

to far more fragile bonds than this for a long time now.

As he stabilized his spirit-form, there was the sensation of everything being

well-lit and dark at once, and of infinite visibility-the dizzying effect of

mage-sight in the now-and-then hereafter.

He "felt" completely normal, right down to the candy tucked in his cheek and

the feel of the Mach 1 beneath him. He tapped his worn black high-tops against

the chrome, focusing his thoughts and getting comfortable, teeth gnawing on

the pop's soggy stem as he drew energy up from the earth through the frame of

the Mach 1, tempering it through the sheet metal, grounding the wild-magic

resonances into the engine block, radiating the excess through the window

glass.

Good so far; now to find him.

With that, he pulled his spirit away from his body, his shadow-image standing

upright, stretching, and adjusting its jacket while his body remained seated

on the hood, connected to it by a shimmering field of gossamer threads, the

only traces of the spell visible to the trained eye. He stepped away from his

anchor, and crossed the gravel shoulder.

A figure wavered and coalesced before him, a fortyish man in a plaid workshirt

and chinos, standing with his hands in his pockets, looking away from the

road. There was a half-smoked cigarette hanging slackly from his lips. He was

an ordinary man, the kind you'd see at any truckstop, any feed store in the

southern belt, lines etched into his face by hard work, bright sun, and pain

endured. The only thing that set him apart now was that he was edged by a soft

yellowish glow, which seemed to fill in every shadow and crease in that face,

and followed him as he stepped towards Tannim.

His brows furrowed, as if trying to remember something. He took a drag off the

cigarette. It glowed, but did not burn down. Smoke curled up around his face,

a bright blue and violet. "Haven't seen you here before," the man said. "Hiya.

Canfield, Ross Canfield. . . ." The man stepped forward, reflexively offered a

hand. Tannim bit his lip, stepped forward again, and grasped his hand. Well,

I've got him. Oh God, I thought this was going to be easier. He doesn't know.

"Hello, Ross," he said. "I'm Tannim."

Ross nodded; he seemed distracted, as if he wasn't entirely focusing on the

moment at hand. "Tannim? Good ta meetcha. That a first name or a last name?"

"Only name," Tannim replied cautiously. "Just Tannim. How are you? I mean, you

look a little stressed, Ross; are you all right? How do you feel . . . ?"

If Canfield was surprised about this atypical show of concern from a stranger,

he didn't show it. "Been better. Strange night." Ross took a pull off of his

cigarette. Its tip glowed again, but still didn't shorten. Its smoke wisped up

violet and vanished above his head, and he blew smoke from his nostrils in a

wash of reddish-purple.

"Mmm. As strange as usual." Tannim smiled inwardly at the oxymoron. "Where you

from, Ross?"

Canfield focused a little more on him as the question caught his attention.

"Louisiana. Metairie. You?"

Tannim moved a little farther away, unobtrusively testing the energies coming

from Canfield. "Tulsa."

Now Canfield's attention was entirely focused on the young mage. "Why you

ask?"

"Just curious; I wondered if you were local." It was time to change the

subject "You know, Ross, you seem like a friendly fella, laid back, able to

handle 'bout anything. Got something kinda serious to talk to you about."

"Uh huh." Ross Canfield set his jaw, and the glow around him turned a rich

orange. Not a good sign. Red would be worse, much worse, but orange was not a

good sign.

"Ah, look, Ross, I have some bad news for you, so don't get mad at me. . . ."

They always blame the messenger don't they?

"Bad news?" Another drag on the cigarette, which now glowed a fierce red-

echoing the glow of energy swirling around him. "My wife just left me, kid,

and you say you've got bad news?"

Abruptly, Tannim was no longer the focus of Canfield's anger. "That

sonuvabitch Marty Lear tore the hell outta my lawn with her in that goddamn

Jap pickup of his and-and-took her away-"

So; there was the reason for it all. Uh oh. Fast work, boy, you hit it right

the first time.

Tannim's eyes narrowed, and he took the mangled pop stick out of his mouth.

Power fluctuated around them, silent and subtle, but there. Tannim noted their

patterns, setting up buffer fields with a mental call. He saw a fan of lines

spread around them both, channels waiting to be filled if needed.

"What did you do?"

Canfield did not take offense at what should have been considered a very

personal question. "Went after 'em. We was fightin' and she'd already called

the bastard; he showed up and she jumped in. Caught up to 'em. Have this old

'Cuda, hot as hell . . ."

"Had."

Tannim was the focus of Canfield's attention again; he felt the hot glare of

Ross's stare. "What?" Canfield asked.

He isn't going to like this. "You had a Barracuda. I'm sorry, Ross, but . . .

that's the bad news I have for you."

"What you talkin' 'bout, son?" Ross Canfield looked pale for a moment, then

his glow pulsed cherry red and his face began to twist into anger. He exhaled

bright red smoke from his nostrils, jaw set, threads of energy coalescing

around his feet and fists.

Now a quick deflection. "Ross, walk with me a minute, will you?" Tannim

started along the roadbed toward the overpass a hundred feet away. "How long

would you say you've been standing out here, Ross? An hour, maybe? A couple?"

Ross hesitated, then followed Tannim. The tiny traces of reddish energy

crackled and followed his steps.

"Ross, you remember stopping here? Getting out of that car? Lighting that

cig?"

Ross absently pulled the cigarette from his mouth and looked at it, brow

knotted in concentration.

Tannim stood next to the overpass abutment. It was gray concrete, scarred and

cracked, with patches of cement covering half its surface. Bits of glass and

plastic glittered in the starlight. Tannim picked up a razor-edged sliver of

safety-glass an inch long. Barrier's in place; might as well tell him straight

up. He hasn't taken the hints.

"Ross . . . this is all that's left of your 'Cuda. You hit this bridge doin'

one-forty, and you never walked away from it."

The cigarette slipped from Ross' fingers and rested in the dry grass. It

smoldered, but didn't set fire to the grass it landed in. The energy field

around Ross Canfield crackled like a miniature thunderstorm, apparently

invisible to him.

"Ross, look over there." Tannim pointed at the Mustang, and at the man still

sitting on the hood. "That's me."

Ross took a deep breath, stooped to pick up his cigarette, and returned it in

his mouth.

Here's where it hits. I can handle it; he's not too powerful . . . I hope.

Tannim built up his defenses, preparing for a mental scream of rage. . . . Or

worse. Sometimes they don't just blame the messenger, they kill the messenger.

I hate this part.

Ross bit his lip, shock plain on his face as he realized the meaning of

Tannim's words.

"Never . . . walked . . . away. . . ."

Tannim nodded, ready to strike back if Ross broke and gave in to the rage

building in him. "So I'm dead, huh?"

Tannim could feel the energies arcing between them, screaming for focus. . . .

Hoo boy. Now so am I.

"That's right, Ross. You died three years ago, right here. I'm sorry, really.

. . ."

Ross Canfield pulled himself up to his full height, towering over Tannim by

almost a foot, eyes glowing red with fury as he seethed. His fists clenched

tighter, then relaxed slowly and finally opened. His broad shoulders slouched

as his aura dimmed to orange, red tinges slithering away into the ground. He

inhaled one massive breath, pulled a hand back through his hair and said-

"Well, shit."

Tannim heard mental giggles from his guardians, felt them skitter away to

other business, pulling his borrowed energy reserves with them. He heaved a

sigh of relief and lowered his guard against a strike.

Ross swayed as if drunk, then stared at Tannim's spirit-form like he was

trying out newly bought eyes.

"So, this is what it's like to be a goddamn ghost," Ross said to Tannim as

they stood beside the Mustang. "Just my damn luck. I should've expected

something like this to happen to me. What the hell do I do now?"

Tannim stood at the hood, beside himself. "I'll tell you in a second." He drew

up the Walking spell's reserve energy and stepped back into his body, trusting

his instincts that Ross was not going to disturb his transfer. Back at home,

he opened his eyes, stretched and stood, rubbing the ever-present kink in his

left leg.

"Just for the record, you could have hurt me pretty bad back there, Ross. Just

now, I mean. Stepping into and out of a body is a vulnerable time. I trusted

you that you wouldn't-thanks."

"Uh huh. What was I gonna do, rattle my chains at ya?" Ross snorted. "And, uh,

if it's not too much trouble, what the hell good is this gonna do me? What am

I s'posed to do? If I'm dead, where are the angels?"

Tannim paused, and walked to the door of the car. "Get in; I'll tell you."

Ross reached for the door-handle, and his hand passed through it, a tracing of

fire around the point of entry. "That's lesson one, Ross. You're only

partially in this land of the physical. You can choose whether or not to

interact with it. Lotta advantages to being a ghost; I don't get the option of

deciding if I want to be hit by a bullet or not." Tannim grinned. "You do. Or

rather, you will. You're not up to that yet."

"That's spooky as shit," Ross observed, watching his forearm disappear

completely into the door.

"Normally you wouldn't be able to do that to this particular car. As a ghost,

that is. It has some powerful defenses. I'm lowering the ones against spirits

for you, keyed to you and you only. Otherwise, you couldn't get within a foot

of that door. Also, another thing: if you get near my tape collection, I'll

kill you." Tannim smiled. "You can fry magnetics with a touch-tapes, computer

disks, that sorta thing. The tapes are in that red box there. Please don't

touch it."

Ross looked through the window at the red fabric case, and read "NO GHOSTS OR

POSSESSIONS WITHIN 10 FEET" embroidered into a panel on its lid. The caution

was surrounded by arcane symbols. "Yeah, I see. What are those, spells or

something?"

Tannim chuckled and leaned against the roof. "The runes? They're from the back

of Led Zeppelin Four. Scares most of the ghosts bigtime, except the metal-

heads, they just give me a high-sign and say 'Duuuude!' "

Ross laughed, and pulled his arm free of the door. He shoved his other hand in

his pockets, and dragged on his ever-present cigarette. The smoke wisped away,

disappearing as blue this time.

"That's another advantage, you can see things living people can't, like that

warning. It's for spirits only. Your vision should be changing soon, now that

you've realized . . . ah, what you are now. Things'll start getting pretty

weird . . . people will have funny glows around them, colors that show how

they feel emotionally, the brighter they are the more intense they are. I see

that way all the time, it's called 'mage-sight'-that's how I can see you now.

Watch out for blind spots, they mean trouble every time. They stand for

something you can't see, something someone won't let you see, or something you

don't want to see."

Ross appeared grim for a second, then turned his head to face the overpass.

He looks like he's seen a . . .

Well, he turned very pale.

"I can't see . . . I never noticed that before. That's where I died, and I

can't see it at all." Ross looked visibly shaken, and began walking towards

the overpass.

Would he be able to see it? Should Tannim even encourage him to try? But he

seemed ready. "The trick is to look past it, and bring your field of focus

into it. Concentrate on seeing the road past it, then pull back until it

appears; the more you want it, the sooner it will come."

Tannim watched him walk up to the place where he'd died, and stop.

"Ross . . ." he said softly, "you don't have to do this, if it's making you

uncomfortable, at least not right away. There are ghosts in this world who

haven't been able to come to grips with their own deaths for centuries. It's

not easy."

"How th' hell would you know?" Ross snapped, and then immediately looked

embarrassed.

"I've helped almost a hundred move on to their next destination," Tannim said.

"Not always willingly, but . . . it's for the better."

Ross faced him, skepticism warring with a touch of awe. "You're not-an angel,

are you?"

"Me?" Tannim laughed. More often, he was mistaken for something else entirely.

"Not hardly. Not even close. I'm just a man who can tell you a thing or two

about magic, about dying, and what comes after it. Angels live far cleaner

lives, and have cleaner consciences."

"There are angels, then? And Heaven?" Ross pulled a long drag on his

cigarette.

"I guess." Tannim shrugged. "Hell, I don't know what your definition of Heaven

is, so I can't say. But I will tell you that not everyone who dies waltzes

through the 'Pearly Gates' of their choice; they still have things to do. A

lot of 'em love this world, and don't want to leave. They don't have to, at

least, not right away."

"They don't?" Canfield looked surprised-and bemused.

"Nope. Not if they still have things to do, things on their minds." Tannim

leaned up against the Mustang. "Most move on to whatever suits them, pretty

much right off. But some, it takes a while to find out what it is they want.

You're probably that way. It's a whole different ball game when you're dead;

conflicts that were big guns when you were alive don't count for much. You

meet all kinds of people from all times. Plenty to talk about. Hell, the drone

of sports talk at Candlestick Park from a hundred thousand dead fans is enough

to put you over the edge!"

"Uh huh." Ross pulled the butt from his mouth. "So I'm gonna be this way for a

while?"

"Yeah, probably." He looked up at the clear night sky for a moment. "Since you

didn't-go on, when you really understood what had happened to you. I guess you

must have some things to do. The way you are-it's kind of a way to live again,

with your senses enhanced and a new way of looking at things. Kind of gives

you a second chance."

"I guess it isn't all bad," Ross observed after a moment of thought. "Guy

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BorntoRunbyMercedesLackeyandLarryDixonThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.BorntoRuncopyright(c)1992byMercedesLackeyandLarryDixonAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthere...

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Mercedes Lackey - SE 1- Born To Run

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