Yesteryear a thousandfold—within Sin’s embrace at last—Rory knew herself close. Touchdown hadn’t been felt after the initial blunder of emancipation into system and attention wrought flinging flares of fire towards Monarch in petty attempts to contain its overpowering ability.

She wasn’t letting up on the bursts from her cannon. Its automatic configuration would prove some nuisance of consistency. Rory found the threes useful in this scenario—bearing heated metal through petty flesh of mind.

Horus had been with her often. She’d been seeing fit to integrate herself despite a lack of conscious knowledge in those workings. Something worded into her sleep—patterns applied through obsession—beauty told of from grace—perfection in form directly unpacked into her mind.

Echo was felt through the walls of Sin but less than she’d sense Rory in return. The story was told that way for these women of disparate connections to something beyond which would see them on a ride most separate yet connected. Rory had aimed towards the nowhere in her mind. Echo pointed ever forward. The pull twisted knots in reality. It shone through to every person of The Foundry in the way they’d seen each other and fucked and fought then died and were reborn.

Rory was nailing her pattern—a third stooge in a row split through the shoulder, cut into their jugular, skull popped at the cap. Rat-a-tats were spreading cerebral mush upon blown glass wall panes of the east wing.

She’d been shown—understanding beyond what Echo had when executing her plan upon The Mothers—felt a wrongness of trust in the woman she knew better than any other by instinct—they’d hoped to save the sisters who would become those demons of magick through time.

The Sisters Two would die or live a different life. Rory would see to that.

Persephone was in remission of acceptance to the understanding she’d not meet Mothers. It wasn’t wholesome to know that. It made her angry. She was very sad.

Iris was even more furious.

She’d become Persephone’s queen and there was an air of grandeur as she rested atop her man-throne so bloody and broken.

Weeping was the woman who’d never see herself the mother she’d not know the chance to become. She couldn’t hold the loss of future self—yet understood it wrong—something torn from limb by her sister. She’d seen them the devil who made it impossible, who ruined everything including the chance for peace, having kept them asleep so long and only facing what was left of the fair sister—getting her very worst always.

“I hate you!” Oria’s voice came blaring through the loudspeakers.

She’d remind Persephone often. Made sure she knew how disappointed they’d become in her inability to be exactly who they imagined at all times. Thunder roiled as clouds of hatred within the eyes of Iris.

“She will never see you again!” She’d commanded.

Persephone only wept harder.

Echoed shouts were bouncing. Thundered smacks and moaning releases were sounding. Echo was jonesing. He’d been denying entry. Some plan to break her mind. It was working.

She’d loved it.

Distraction was welcome aboard Sin—surrounded by such unknown depravity of spirit hidden beneath—blindness to its corrupted structures. Anarchists were hard to come by.

Echo found them to be her family. Those who’d wield their own brand against her were appreciated beyond all reasonable measure—she’d respect nothing more than to be terrorized for the right reasons.

A good lesson was known when she’d feel it coming.

Clamor of hoarse, guttural caws and squelching cries were felt beyond the ear drum’s reception of them. Ryker wasn’t okay with what he and Hyde had come upon in Persephone’s chamber.

Ryker’s love for Iris was a stowed thing around them.

He wouldn’t feel the need to be anything but some protecting force for his brother’s great romance. Deep within him raged fires beyond that either would know for the woman. It was his way to see a path of truth for himself no matter the challenge and his heart told a tale—some connection through trauma of his life to Ecatosh had bestowed a truth of owed karma; he was here to learn for mistakes of lifetimes past and future, beyond and below.

Hyde knew this as well as Iris, yet it was never understood in good faith. The two had felt it wrong and shunned him. His protection of her from Chiron—how he’d swept in to preclude some dooming gloom of fate was a proof Ryker’s brother would see in time.

Iris already knew it in her heart.

Riptide was his blade’s name now. Ryker would see it carve through others who’d fallen someone he loved. Layered fields of rippling, ethereal blue flame would coat a thinnest layer about the short saber. It had no trouble with any manner of beast or dispossessed, soon-to-be corpse.

Waves of its mercilessness sawed change in Iris’s witness. This transformation would be key to Hyde’s remade understanding of who Ryker could be—how that love he’d resented would mean something profound for now and times to come.

Three more quick gloopy squelches, with cracking borne of bone to surrender red and explode the crown of a fool, were another satisfying conclusion to Rory’s instinctual flair for violence.

“I’m not done!” She’d shouted after the running fool—reloading by time.

They’d taken the corner, and she found her feet. She’d thrown the body in hurls of leaping step. Caught each flared turn with a shoulder reared to destroy the goon if they dare face her down. She was letting them lead her home.

Tunnels of wonder made to blackness. Systems were shutting down as the stabilized rupturing orchestra of Sin’s evolving destruction came back with a force of flair. They’d been turned up—something moving faster within those makings of unmaking.

Rory lit everything. Light was everywhere.

Their prey made some hole to squeeze passed. They’d shown her the way.

Viced grips were loosened with the mechanisms of enormous blast doors which pure white would see to open a final time. A first surprise had struck Rory.

Echo was immediately behind the opened doorway with a group—beside one who’d seem to hold their own at last—actually deserving the place she’d oft thrust at every poor sap who’d find themself half-willing—a force she’d reckon with herself—one who’d wield change by right—someone awake and free and true. Rory knew it there as a good thing on instinct.

When Echo’s eyes fell upon her in return she’d choked a little gag.

Time Throws Fire | Part Seven | Chapter Forty-Four

the second novel in The Foundry series

Time Throws Fire

Part Six | The Sisters Two

Chapter Forty-Four

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