by Karen Chance
“I don’t know.”
“You were right. I haven’t been treating you as a Pythia. It’s difficult to see anyone in that role . . . besides her.”
“I know.”
“But you are Pythia.” He shot me a glance. “And you’re going back.”
I nodded. “To find a weapon of the gods, and a man who knows how to wield it.”
“And the potion . . . the bottle I found, is it enough?”
“No. But a full one wouldn’t be, either. I’m too tired. I barely got us here.”
“Then how?”
I looked at the house. “There’s another way.”
Chapter Forty-six
The woods were lovely, dark and deep.
And then we shifted in.
I hit the ground with Hildegarde on top of me, and then Abigail slammed into her. And finally Rosier appeared out of nowhere and collapsed on top of us, and I started seeing stars. Only no: the silvery trails through the trees were something else.
“Grab her!” I wheezed, and another ghostly presence shot off through the branches, but it wasn’t Billy Joe.
He was too busy bitching at me.
“I told you . . . this was a bad . . . idea!”
“Why are you . . . breathless?” I gasped, because I was the one with six hundred pounds on top of me.
“Because that . . . was the most insane thing . . . I’ve ever done!” he screeched, spectral hat tipped back on his head, hazel eyes huge. “What the hell?”
He was talking about our trip through the Badlands, which we’d reentered in order to take a shortcut to the past. Dad had lent me his two ghosts, and with Billy Joe hopped up on Rosier’s power, we’d been able to carry four: me, Rosier, and my two new acolytes, who were looking like they very much regretted the trip.
But we’d managed it, although we’d had to exit a few years early in self-defense. And then immediately shift away from the tide of hungry spirits that had poured out after us. It had been like somebody rang a dinner bell—thanks to Daisy, who had wandered too far out and brought something back with her.
Something huge.
I hadn’t gotten a good look at it before we were enveloped by a horde of panicked ghosts, all trying to get away from whatever it was and to snack on us in the bargain.
Which was probably what had Daisy so spooked, I thought, as she was dragged back through the trees, protesting.
“I was just stretching my legs,” she said haughtily.
“Damn it, woman! You don’t have any legs!” the colonel said, his muttonchops vibrating in indignation.
“Do, too,” she said, and then peered down worriedly as I struggled to get up.
“And this is no time for a stroll!”
I couldn’t agree more.
The idea had been to arrive incognito, because phasing didn’t use the Pythian power. Or any magic at all, at least none that a normal magic worker was likely to detect. I assumed that was how Johanna had been evading me: my power could only find her if she used it, or messed up the time stream, and so far, she’d done neither. We, on the other hand, had just made a big damn entrance.
“Think they noticed?” I asked Hildegarde, who was lying on her side, panting.
“If they didn’t, they’re blind,” she wheezed, and sat up.
“You okay?” I asked Abigail, who was still flat on the ground and not looking okay. Her once-nice updo was everywhere, and her brown eyes were like saucers.
“Fail-safe is usually more of an . . . honorary position,” she whispered.
“Well, it’s been upgraded,” Hilde said. “Help me up!”
They struggled back to their feet while the colonel stepped in front of me. Dad’s second ghost was an old gentleman wearing a blue uniform with massive epaulets whom I’d briefly met once before. He’d seemed pretty unfriendly then, but Roger vouching for me had worked wonders.
“There appear to be a number of hostiles in the area,” he reported.
“Hostiles?” I repeated, and immediately, a series of images started cascading in front of my eyes, courtesy of the power’s viewfinder to the future. I hadn’t asked for them, but I guess it thought I should know that a forest full of Pythias were converging on our location.
Hilde was right: they knew we were here.
Like, all of them.
For a moment, I just stared as what looked like every Pythia in the last fifteen hundred years flipped in front of my eyes.
“They’re not supposed to be doing this,” Abigail said, apparently seeing the same shit I was. “They’re not even supposed to meet!”
“Gertie has been breaking the rules,” I told her as my power roamed outward, trying to find a path through the insanity.
And kept on looking.
“She always did,” Hilde murmured while Abigail continued to stare into space, caught somewhere between horror and fascination. It didn’t look like the Pythian power usually put on this kind of show for the acolytes. At least, I really hoped not, because some of them were out there, too.
Make that all of them. My power’s field of vision suddenly widened, leaving me staring at what looked like an army in white. The forest was crawling; no way were we getting through all that.
“Change of plan,” I told everyone hoarsely.
A moment later, Abigail took off, the colonel on her heels, and I looked at Hilde. “Are you sure you want to try this?”
She nodded. “If I can find Gertie alone, I can phase in and surprise her.”
“Yeah, but will she listen?” It wasn’t exactly her strong suit.
“She’ll listen to me.” It sounded certain.
“How do you know?”
She shot me a look. “She’s my sister.”
And then she and Daisy were gone, too.
“I knew she reminded me of someone,” Billy said, but I barely heard him. I was too busy watching the forecast change.
My new helpers were tearing a swath through the trees, shifting here, there, and everywhere. Causing Pythias and acolytes to peel off after them—and the images flipping in front of my eyes to continually rewrite themselves. Until, finally, I saw a slender path opening up ahead.
But not for both of us. Not when Rosier was wearing bright crimson, I guess to celebrate being back to normal, and because God forbid he dress like a commoner. Or make any effort to blend in.
I grabbed him. “We’re going to have to split up.”
“Split up? We can’t split up! Emrys doesn’t even know me in this—”
“We have to!” I shook him a little, when he looked like he was about to protest again. “Get to the city. Find Pritkin. Stick to him like glue—”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Get you there,” I breathed as someone shifted in, almost on top of us.
Rosier took off—no one ever had to tell him twice—and I shifted an acolyte into two others, who had just appeared through the trees. The trio went down, but there were more right behind them, their dainty dresses in marked contrast to their expressions. Like the first girl, who was already jumping back up, a snarl on her face.
I thought of the group I’d stumbled across last time, and wondered where all that useful timidity went. And then I threw a slow time bubble behind me, at a warning from Billy Joe. And caught a Pythia who had just shifted in, her power signature markedly stronger than the girls’.
Oh, I thought.
That’s where.
And then I fled. A quick succession of jumps in the opposite direction from Rosier left my head reeling and my stomach queasy. And my hands shaking from effort, because yeah.
Not going to be doing this much longer.
“Options,” I breathed, but that was the problem—my power was already showing them to me, and they all sucked. There were four Pythias zeroing in on t
he power of my last spell, and no way could I take four.
“Billy—”
“For the record, I think this is a really bad—”
“Billy—”
“Maybe we could talk to them, try to explain—”
“They don’t want explanations. They want my head!”
“And a bunch of hungry ghosts don’t? You don’t want to go back there!”
“Well, I don’t want to stay here!” I said shrilly as a tree exploded beside us.
“Shit!” Billy said, and shifted.
But the weird, formless vault of nontime was a lot less formless this go-round. “What did you do?” I asked, staring at the X-ray landscape around us.
The forest was still there, in chalky off-white sketches, like an architect’s drawing. I put out a hand, and the exploding bits of wood from the tree passed right through it, twisting slowly in the air but weightless, like they weren’t even there. Because they weren’t—or, rather, I wasn’t.
But I wasn’t in the Badlands, either, at least not entirely.
“What did you do?” I asked again as a figure appeared through the trees.
“I . . . don’t think I totally committed,” Billy said, looking as spooked as I was.
“What does that mean?”
“I think it means we’re sort of . . . on the fringes,” he said. “Like what Lizzie did to you. You’re not at the party, but you’ve got your nose pressed to a window.”
I didn’t answer. I was busy watching a familiar-looking Pythia stalk me through the brush. One with big dark eyes and long, dark curls and cheap little tinsel earrings—and a power signature that almost knocked me down, because she was unbelievably strong.
Or had a hell of a lot of acolytes with her, I thought grimly, as she walked right through me.
And paused.
Eudoxia, my brain supplied as she whirled, her usually pleasant face vicious.
“Billy—”
“We’re skimming along the surface of time,” he told me quickly. “She can’t see us, but she can probably feel us—”
“Then take us farther out!”
“I can’t take us farther out, or we’re gonna be ghost fodder! Plus, I only have so much power. Every time I transition, I get weaker, and that little demon bastard’s not here to top me up!”
“So what would you suggest?”
“Athenais! Lydia! Gwenore!” the woman called.
“Run!” Billy said.
“Over here!”
We ran.
It was surreal, not bothering to dodge the trees, just pelting straight through them. And straight through the three hazy figures suddenly appearing out of nowhere, right in my path. One of them, Gertie’s mentor, Lydia, stopped in her tracks and spun around as I passed, her black, witchy garments flowing about her.
And slashed her walking stick through my X-ray body.
I swear, for a second, I felt it—or felt something, like a rush of wind.
One that packed a punch great enough to send me staggering.
“Here!” she called. “She’s phasing!”
“So much for that idea,” Billy said as I recovered, which would have been easier if I hadn’t tripped over a tree root.
A tree root that was suddenly normal colored, and solid. Like the patch of ground all around it. Like my foot—
For a second, until Billy jerked me back—physically and into nontime—just as Lydia’s stick jabbed down where I’d been standing.
“Cass! Be careful! If they touch you—”
“Got it,” I gasped, ducking as that damn stick slashed through the air again, just over my head.
And then I was tearing toward the tree line.
“Options!” I breathed, because the river was coming up. “Good options,” I clarified, which didn’t seem to help.
And then I saw—
“What are you doing?” Billy asked as I broke out of the trees onto a rocky beach—and kept on going.
Onto the water.
It was no less solid under my feet than the land, despite the fact that my brain kept telling me it should be. It was more than a little trippy, though; the skies were overcast, and the wind was surging, sending waves rolling all around me. Like the ones slapping the ghostly outline of ships along the opposite shore, making them bob at their anchors . . .
“Billy?” I said, looking down, because I’d just realized my feet were wet.
And then we were under.
“Sorry! Sorry!” he said, jerking my soggy form back into nontime. “It’s a learning curve!” he yelled as I coughed out a lungful of water.
And then froze, a hand over my mouth, as two shadows splashed across my body.
I looked up to see two Pythias walking through the waves just overhead, as if on a glass ceiling above me. One had her face turned away, but the other . . . was Isabeau. She looked older now, with a few crow’s-feet around the big gray eyes, and strands of gray in the abundant auburn hair. But it was definitely her.
And her companion, I saw a second later, was Eudoxia.
Bet they have a lot to talk about, I thought viciously, before Billy jerked me down.
They didn’t notice, despite the fact that the water was no more opaque than anything else here. Because who looks beneath your feet? But I could see them perfectly, walking through nontime as if it was no big deal, as if strolling on the surface of a wavy sea just outside time’s grip was an everyday occurrence. And maybe it was.
They had a word for it, after all.
“That’s just so freaky,” Billy said, and I turned to agree. Only to see him standing eyeball-to-eyeball with some type of shark. The waterway here was a tidal river, according to Rosier, letting out into the nearby sea, and deep enough for oceangoing vessels to make their way up it.
Or oceangoing fish.
“Death has been so much more interesting than life,” he told me, staring at the creature in fascination. “Sure, you give up some stuff—some really important stuff—but then you get to do things like this.” And he reached out, one finger just poking through the skin of time.
And booped the shark’s nose.
“How close to the real world are we?” I asked, as the startled predator raced off.
“Close as I can get us. I am not comfortable with wacky ghost land. We need to get back where we belong—”
“Not with them chasing us.”
Hazel eyes cut to me.
A couple minutes later, I was wading ashore, a long, wooden dock on one side, and the walls of Arthur’s city on the other. While behind, sailors yelled and fell back as the sails they were struggling to furl suddenly went up in flames. Because a ghost tripping on demon power was ripping through the line of ships.
I crouched on the rocky soil near the dock and watched Billy go a little crazy. He almost never had energy to spare, especially lately when I’d been too tapped out to feed him. But that hadn’t been true of Rosier, and he was taking full advantage. On half a dozen ships, barrels hit the ocean waves, lanterns went flying, sailors yelled.
And hot oil flew, causing fires to spring up everywhere.
Eudoxia started while still among the waves, her forehead wrinkling suspiciously. Isabeau looked around from the deck of one of the now merrily burning ships, where she’d just rematerialized. Maybe because searching something when your feet keep trying to float through the floor isn’t so easy.
Or when the massive sails, which had been rolled tightly against the weather, abruptly unfurled, the wind billowing them out to full capacity, causing the ship to jerk hard against the anchor.
Until that line was cut, too.
The mighty vessel careened off toward the opposite shore, the startled Pythia still on board, and Billy swooped down beside me. “I’ll keep ’em busy, do what I can to lead ’em off,” h
e said, grinning like a maniac.
“Get back as soon as you can,” I said, watching Eudoxia shift to her beleaguered former apprentice. “I’m going to need you. I can’t use the power without bringing every Pythia in history down on my head.”
He made a face, but then grinned again, having too much fun to argue. He pulled me back into real time, my feet suddenly encountering hard rocks and shifting sand, and I watched him zoom away. And then switched my gaze to the forest, scanning for movement among the trees.
I didn’t see any, but they were out there, and Billy was right; this wouldn’t fool them for long.
I turned and headed for Camelot.
Chapter Forty-seven
Despite everything, I took a moment to stare at the real Camelot. According to Rosier, it hadn’t been called that until the thirteenth century, when some French poet decided he liked the name. In all the older texts, Arthur’s main seat was Caerleon, the sprawling stone-built city of the Romans, originally designed to house the six thousand soldiers of the Second Legion Augusta.
And looked like it still did.
On my left was a bustling port town, where white stuccoed buildings with red terra-cotta roofs sat side by side with thatched Celtic structures. Straight ahead, peering over some rooftops, was the old Roman amphitheater, its multicolored pennants shining brilliantly even on an overcast day. To the right, above a rise of ground, were the turreted stone walls surrounding the old city, built by the Second Augusta to withstand tribes of warring Celts. And, finally, on a hill overlooking it all, were the tall gray towers of a castle.
I teared up unexpectedly, I didn’t know why. Something about seeing a legend in the flesh, so to speak. Or maybe it had to do with the way the late-afternoon light hit the city, glinting redly off marble arches and sparkling fountains, and adding life to the gold paint someone had used to carefully pick out the scrollwork on centuries-old porticoes.
Of course, there were other things the light hit, too. Like the many-times-patched plaster that was crumbling yet again; the rusted, salt-encrusted ironwork meant for a drier clime; the wooden roof tiles that had been carefully shaped and painted to resemble the terra-cotta ones that nobody could get anymore; and the once proud Roman road cutting through it all, its surface now pitted and potholed. It looked like a city trying to recreate the splendors of the past, but not getting it quite right.
