When the beast’s weight came fully down, the base of the spear stabbed into the ground, almost impaling Rain’s foot. Its own body weight drove the point in deeper, and helped Rain get the second pole to impale the same area.

The metal poles, as thick around as either of Rain’s arms, bent under the creature’s mass and weight. But it slowed it as it tried to turn and claw at Rain.

“Fight me! Leave them alone!” Rain roared the words.

It almost seemed to try. The makeshift spears dragged furrows into the dirt as it tried to turn Rain’s direction.

Does it react to emotion? Gilpatrick wondered.

“You can have me, if you let them leave. Let them take the fucking wounded!”

It roared.

Gilpatrick, just getting to his feet and finding his equilibrium, was rocked by the emotion that ripped through him. His thoughts tore as emotions that had made up maybe three percent of his mental real estate took over everything, grinding and crushing away anything and everything else.

Hurt, inflict, shoot—

Each emotion was an action—the first two were frustrated ones, an inability to find someone in reach. An inability to find an insult or invective fresh in his mind.

His finger pulled the trigger. He aimed wildly and checked the gun in the same motion, reflexively pulling the trigger again and again.

—maim, destroy, tear it all down—

Nobody and nothing close enough. Only this sea of white sand that smelled and tasted like salt and chalk on his tongue. He grit his teeth so hard it felt like something would give.

Maim.

He fixed his attention on the idea. On Marcial’s ruined lower body. With the way the impulses gripped him, he was already moving, already on his way to her.

Make it hurt.

—make it hurt, torture, butcher, kill—

He was heedless of the beast, who fought Rain, ten or fifteen feet away. Heedless of Rain, who screamed again, raw and without reservation.

Gilpatrick dug fingers into Marcial’s wounded body, past hot meant, blood, and to exposed bone, slick with fluid. She groped for and found his collar, twisting it, choking him—

Make it hurt.

His adjustments, bare fingers in open wound, gave him his victory here. She couldn’t keep choking him with the pain she was in. She tried and failed to get a grip on his wrist, fingernails scraping on the slick surface of his PRT-issue windbreaker.

He hauled, hard, on the bone, as if he could tear it from the bleeding meat of her, his thoughts numb.

Make it hurt. Need time to make it hurt.

He hauled again, pulled her.

Still growling, the beast crashed into him. He sprawled, grit digging into skin, salt dust in his nose and mouth.

—Retaliate—

Can’t hurt it. Too tough.

I can hurt her.