The Blade of Shattered Hope

by James Dashner

  But the pulsing continued, stronger now, though nothing like what he’d felt on the street. Still, it was powerful enough that the energy surrounded him, throbbing, and he couldn’t tell from which direction it came.

  Womp . . . womp . . . womp . . .

  He slowly turned in a circle, scanning every inch of the room with his eyes. Boxes, tubs, junk. Nothing else.

  The pulse stopped. Cut off.

  It didn’t slow, didn’t fade. It stopped, abruptly. A powerful silence filled the air. Tick’s skin tingled, as if it had grown used to the almost comforting vibrations of the energy waves and wanted them back. He heard his own breathing as he continued to turn, and for some reason that creeped him out. He felt stuck in one of those nightmares where you know you’re dreaming, but you can’t wake up.

  His instincts came to life, telling him to get out of there. He—

  “Atticus. Higginbottom.”

  Tick turned sharply toward the sound, stumbling backward until he hit the stairs. His knees buckled, and he sat down on the third step. He sucked in a breath, feeling as if something had been shoved down his throat, clogging it. The barely female voice that had spoken his name had been monstrous. Dry. Raspy. Painful. As if every syllable sent waves of flame through its owner’s body. And it was slightly . . . muffled.

  He couldn’t see anyone in the basement. He swept his head back and forth but saw nothing. No one. His hands gripped the lip of the step beneath his legs.

  “Two words,” said the horrible voice. “A name. How different my life would be if I’d never heard them uttered.”

  Tick concentrated on a certain spot, a dark shadow behind a pile of boxes he hadn’t noticed before. Probably another project his dad should have organized and put away months ago. But there was enough room back there for someone to stand. To hide.

  “Who’s there?” Tick asked, relieved his voice came out with no cracks. Relieved he could talk at all.

  “An old friend,” came the reply, the harsh voice softening to a bare whisper, like the crackling of dead leaves in the distance. “Someone who wanted to be your friend.”

  Tick knew his mouth was open. He knew his eyes were wide, full of terror. Every inch of him screamed that he should run. He should book it up the stairs and yell for his parents to call the police.

  It was her. It was her.

  He couldn’t move his eyes away from the tall length of shadow. Something moved in the darkness. A human figure formed, then stepped into the light. A robe of dull yellow covered every inch of her body, the hood pulled up and over her head, almost hiding the face.

  Except there was no face. At least, not a human face. The figure wore a red mask of metal, its features pulled into a smile that somehow looked more frightening than a scowl of anger.

  “Mistress Jane,” Tick whispered, his senses having turned numb. He knew it was her before she nodded ever so slightly to confirm what he’d said. So he hadn’t killed her after all.

  But that mask. And her voice. What had he done to her?

  He waited for her to speak, to explain why she’d come. But she only stood there, completely still, her hands hidden within the folds of her robe. The red mask was impossibly shiny, almost as if it were molten metal. Liquid. Wet.

  One of the eyebrows twitched, moving half an inch up then back down again. As he stared, the smile on the mask slowly melted into a frown, into a grimace. The eyebrows slanted with unspoken rage.

  How did she do that? Tick could feel blood rushing in his temples, in his neck. What was she going to do to him?

  Still, she said nothing. She didn’t move.

  Tick couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Jane . . . Mistress Jane . . .” He was stuttering, searching for words. If his hands hadn’t been firmly holding onto the stair beneath him, they’d have been trembling uncontrollably. “I promise I didn’t mean to do whatever I did to you. I lost control—I don’t even know what I lost control of. My mind wasn’t working right. I don’t know what happened.”

  He paused, hoping for a change on that mask. If anything, it looked angrier.

  “I’m sorry,” he continued. “I could tell by the way you

  . . . screamed, that, um . . .” He looked down at the floor. “I know I hurt you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  When he lifted his eyes again, he almost cried out. She was three steps closer to him, the mask as scary as ever, the rage evident on the sparkling, deep red surface.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, barely getting it out.

  “Stop talking,” Jane said, her raspy voice muffled but strong, creating a dry whisper of an echo in the room. “Don’t say another word until I give you permission. Do you understand?”

  “Ye—” Tick stopped himself. He nodded.

  Mistress Jane stood still, her robe unruffled. She reminded Tick of a statue. A very angry statue with a red face. “I don’t want to hear your apologies. Your excuses. Don’t insult my pain by refusing to take responsibility for your actions. You know the nature of Chi’karda. You know the nature of your heart. You did this to me by your own choice. It couldn’t have happened against your will. Your conscious . . . current . . . evident will.” She spat out the last few syllables.

  Tick felt awful. It wasn’t so much the words she’d used. He felt the meaning of them more in the tone of her voice. Worse, he felt the truth of it. Shame and guilt blossomed like diseased flowers in his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

  “I—” he began.

  “I DIDN’T ASK YOU TO SPEAK!” she screamed, her body shaking beneath the robe, the first movement Tick had seen in several minutes. Terror pinched Tick’s nerves.

  Then, as if it came from another world, one in which he used to live but could barely remember, he heard footsteps upstairs. Urgent footsteps. The basement door opened above them.

  No! he thought, even as he turned to look up the stairs, ready to tell his parents to run.

  But when he saw who stood in the doorway, confusion and surprise almost burned away his fear. He blinked, forcing himself to swallow.

  It was Sofia.

  Chapter

  8

  ~

  Quite the Crowd

  Shocked to see her, Tick stood up and fully turned around, facing the stairs, his eyes riveted on one of his best friends. He could almost forget he had the most dangerous woman in the Realities standing behind him.

  “Sofia?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  “Is she down there?” she responded in a whisper, gesturing with a nod.

  Tick was completely baffled. “How do you . . .” He didn’t know how to finish or what to ask first. What was going on?

  “Is she down there?” Sofia repeated, her emphasis leaving no doubt who she meant.

  Tick jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Yes!” he snapped in a loud rasp. “She’s standing right behind me!”

  “Bring them down,” Mistress Jane said. “They’re late.”

  Tick wilted, hoping against hope that maybe the woman would have gone away when she realized they had company. How had she gotten to Tick’s house in the first place? Only inanimate objects should be winkable to his house and its relatively low amounts of Chi’karda. And what happened to that pulsing thing? He felt completely unsettled, like the old dream where he walked into class at school dressed in nothing but his underwear.

  At the top of the stairs, Sofia leaned back out the door and seemed to be talking to someone. Then she popped back in and started down the steps, each footstep a thump. To Tick’s complete surprise, others followed her.

  Master George, dressed in his fine, dark suit, red-faced and dry-skinned as usual, as if he’d been standing in a windy desert for hours. Behind him came Paul, an inexplicable grin on his face. Next was Tick’s dad, then Tick’s mom, both of them looking bleary-eyed and disheveled as if they’d just been awakened.

  Tick could only stare, his mind trying to convince himself he must be dreaming. When Sofia reached the bottom step, he absently
moved aside and let her pass, then Master George and Paul, both of whom patted him on the shoulder as they walked by. No one said a word, and it was impossible to read anything from the look in their eyes. There was fear there, but only a little.

  His dad stopped beside him, then his mom. They both put their arms around him as Tick turned toward the middle of the basement. Everyone stood in a semicircle, facing Mistress Jane in her yellow robe and red mask, which was now empty of expression, neither angry nor happy. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Tick felt relief that his sisters had gone to Seattle for the weekend.

  The whole situation was just too bizarre, and he finally found his voice.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked to no one in particular. He felt like he was on one of those hidden-camera TV shows where they play pranks on people. He half-expected a cameraman to step out of the shadows any second.

  “Ask her,” Sofia said almost viciously as she pointed at Jane.

  “Yes, my good friend,” Master George added. “Ask our host.”

  Tick looked at Jane, surprised. She’d arranged this?

  Jane didn’t move as silence settled in the room, anticipation palpable in the air. Tick stared at the shiny surface of her red mask, trying to understand what was happening. He stood huddled with his parents in his basement, next to his two best friends and the leader of the Realitants, staring at a woman in a robe and mask, who could probably kill them all without breaking a sweat.

  Time stretched as they waited for Jane to speak, to give an explanation. Tick wanted to scream, wanted to—

  “I sent my waterkelts as a little opening exercise to our meeting,” Jane finally said, her voice scratchy but calm and cool. “Though I’m very disappointed they didn’t kill at least one of your parents, Atticus.”

  Tick said nothing, fighting the urge to run at her.

  “Anyway,” Jane said, “you’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you all here.”

  No one replied, but Tick’s thoughts ran wild. She’d brought them all to his basement?

  The face of Jane’s mask remained expressionless. “I knew Atticus would have the hardest time getting permission to leave due to his . . . unusual gift. That’s why we’re here. That’s why I sent you the note this morning, George. I’m glad to see you’re still capable of performing simple tasks. Though I wanted the boy Sato here as well.”

  Tick glanced at Master George, who was visibly struggling to contain his contempt for this woman. “The boy is on a mission at the moment,” the old man spurted, unable to sound composed. “Be glad we came at all. I’ll have you speak your mind and be done with it. Remember, you’ve given your word this will be a diplomatic meeting. A peaceful meeting.”

  Jane’s mask grinned, though the lips never parted. “Frightened, George? Scared of what your old pupil may do? You can thank the boy”—she nodded at Tick—“for making your fears relevant. You should definitely be afraid.”

  “What is this nonsense?” Master George demanded.

  “How did you get here?” Jane asked him.

  Master George shifted on his feet. “What do you mean?”

  Jane’s smile vanished almost instantly, the mask frowning. “George, don’t make me repeat questions a child could understand. How did you get here?”

  “What does it matter? I fetched Paul and Sofia, then we winked to the forest a mile or so from here and walked the rest of the way. Why?”

  “The forest?” Jane repeated. “Ah, yes, the forest. I sensed a pool of Chi’karda there. Perhaps an old cemetery, its wooden grave markers long turned to dust. I hope you walked briskly—good exercise I’m sure. Looks like you need it.”

  “What is your point?” Master George snapped.

  For the first time, Jane pulled her hands from out of the folds of the robe where she’d had them hidden. No one in the room could hold back a small gasp at the sight of them, especially Tick. He felt his mom’s arm tighten around his shoulders.

  Jane’s hands were hideously red and flaky, covered with scars. Small shards and slivers of golden metal seemed fused to her skin. She folded her fingers together delicately, then rested her hands on her midsection. When Tick finally tore his eyes away from the terrible sight and looked at her face, he saw a horrific grimace of pain. Intense, aching pain. But then it was gone, replaced once again by the expressionless mask.

  Jane must have noticed Tick’s own look of horror. “See something disturbing, Atticus? What, you don’t like my hands? You don’t think they’re pretty? Wouldn’t like to hold them, go for a stroll?”

  Tick felt as though his insides were melting. He’d spent the last few months wondering what had happened to her, wondering if she was dead. He’d been consumed by guilt for what he’d done. Seeing Jane’s hands for himself now, he made the only logical conclusion he could. She wore the robe and mask because the rest of her body looked the same as her ruined hands.

  He wanted to run. He wanted to sprint up those stairs and run away forever.

  Jane seemed to sense his thoughts. “No, Atticus. For what you’ve done to me, you will be by my side. You’ll make restitution, and you’ll help me accomplish what I set out so long ago to do. That’s the only way I’ll forgive you.”

  Tick felt his mom tense again, and he couldn’t stop her before she spoke.

  “Now listen to me, Jane,” she said. “My son isn’t responsible for what happened to you any more than my left foot is. We’ve heard every detail of that day a million times over. He can’t control what’s inside him. You tried to kill him. What did you expect!”

  Jane’s mask moved fiercely to rage. “I did not try to kill him! He knew I was trying to release his Chi’karda. I wanted to stop Chu from driving every last person in the Realities insane. I told him that—he knew it!”

  “That’s a load of horse poop!” Tick’s dad suddenly yelled, making Tick jump.

  “You’re an adult, Jane,” his mom continued, surprisingly calm and collected. “You should’ve known what his reaction would be. Everything that happened to you was your own fault. You—”

  “Shut up!” Jane screamed, her whole body trembling from the effort, the mask full of hate and anger.

  Tick felt his mom and dad take a step backward. He went with them. The other Realitants did the same. A storm of emotions raced through Tick. He wanted to cheer for his dad yelling at Jane; he loved his mom more than at any other moment in his life for standing up for him, for acting so brave and leader-like. And he hated Jane. Hated her.

  But laced through all the other emotions was fear. Pure, unsettling fear. Something terrible was going to happen. He knew it. And deep down within him, he felt the stirrings of his power, massing like a storm. Scared of what might happen, he forced the power away as he’d done earlier in the garage. If only he could learn how to use it . . .

  After a long moment, the echo of Jane’s command faded away, and silence clouded the room. When she spoke again, it was very quiet. “You’ll all be coming with me. I want you to witness something.”

  “Coming with—?” Master George began, but when Jane’s arm shot out and one of her hideous fingers pointed at his face, he shut his mouth.

  Jane lowered her arm and folded her hands once again. “I remember in old movies, how the villain always said, through mad laughter, that he had a diabolical plan. As if anyone actually used such a word as diabolical.”

  She stepped forward, the face of her mask smoothing back to normalcy, though Tick didn’t feel the tension in the room lessen, not one bit.

  “But,” she continued, her voice icy and soft, “it’s the only word I can think of for what I have planned. My plan is, indeed, diabolical. For you, Edgar, slow-witted as you seem to be, that means terrible, horrible, awful, treacherous, and unspeakably nasty. Understand?” Her eyebrows arched.

  Tick wanted to punch her for being so cruel to his dad, but did nothing. Next to him, his dad merely nodded. Tick hoped it was out of fear and not shame or embarrassment at her accusa
tion.

  “Yes,” Jane said, with a slow smile. “A diabolical plan. And every one of you is going to witness it.”

  Chapter

  9

  ~

  Dead Ticks Everywhere

  This was the eighth time Sato’d seen it now. A tomb for Tick.

  Every place was unique. The wording was a little different every time, and the dates varied, but they all meant the same thing.

  Tick’s Alterants were dead. All of them, by the looks of it.

  Sato hoped this latest discovery would finally be enough to satisfy George and let him end gallivanting all across the Realities. Tick was alive in Reality Prime, but Sato had personally witnessed his friend’s grave in eight of the remaining twelve. Did George really need him to go through with making sure the other four were the same? Knowing George, Sato thought with a sigh, probably yes. Just to make sure.

  Sato stood in a vast field in the Fifth Reality, dawn still a couple of hours away. He’d woken up in the middle of the night back at newly repaired Realitant headquarters in the Bermuda Triangle—Sato still missed going for walks in the Grand Canyon—and hadn’t been able to go back to sleep.

  So he’d made Rutger roll his round body out of bed and wink him here to the Fifth Reality. He wanted to get the trip over with and be done. He was looking forward to getting back earlier than usual and having plenty of time to rest and relax. Maybe play cards with Mothball and Sally, though those two turned vicious when the stakes got high. Especially if the pot reached a whole bag of M&Ms.

  The air had winter’s bite of cold—the place was far in the north with a high altitude—but he’d worn his thick coat and gloves, so he actually felt great, refreshed and full of life. Beaming his big flashlight this way and that, he’d slowly made his way across the huge cemetery, checking each and every tombstone.