The soldier nudged Emily forward, and she stumbled again, looking away from the sword to focus on the man sitting beside it.
He was perhaps in his sixties, judging by the thatch of short iron-gray hair that topped his long narrow face. The immaculate suit he wore was an entire world of contradictions—a black double-breasted jacket with a purple silk shirt beneath, and a large white collar like those worn by priests. A small gold crucifix was pinned to one lapel, and a white handkerchief was just visible in a breast pocket.
“Have a seat, miss…” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t know your name yet.” He gestured to the worn armchair across from him, and when Emily didn’t move, the soldier nudged her again. Reluctantly, Emily sat, her eyes fixed on the sword so tantalizingly close.
“She had this with her, sir.” The soldier removed the pouch from his belt and dropped it onto the table.
Emily’s fingers curled, aching to reach out. If she could just touch the sword—that would be enough…
“Very good, my boy. You may leave us.”
“Sir, are you sure that’s…”
“Leave us.”
The man in the suit did not raise his voice; he didn’t even sound particularly commanding. But there was something in his tone—a note of authority—and the soldier broke off. He saluted and turned away.
As the door clicked shut behind him, the man in the suit turned back to her, and Emily forced herself to meet his gaze.
“Now, my dear,” the man said, “what is your name?”
For a heartbeat, Emily considered refusing to answer, refusing to speak at all, but what would be the point? Again, her gaze flicked down to the sword, and she was startled to find its hilt covered by the man’s thin hand.
“You want this, don’t you?” he asked, his voice calm and casual. When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “You don’t have to answer. I can see it quite plainly. It’s in your eyes.”
He paused again, waiting, but still, she did not speak.
“You may have it back…eventually…but right now, we need to talk.” He paused, considering her gravely. It felt as though those serene hazel eyes were staring directly into her soul, and Emily had to will herself not to drop her own.
“Look,” he said, “I’ll start. I am the Reverend Jefferson Blake, but most simply call me the Preacher.” He smiled at her, but still, it did not reach his eyes. “And your name is…”
Emily hesitated again.
“Emily,” she said at last.
“Emily. Interesting. A good name.” He bowed his head for a moment, his fingers tapping on the tabletop as he apparently considered something.
“Those demon spawn out there say you’ve got a gift or two. Gave them some trouble, so I hear.”
She said nothing.
“You’re a quiet one. I like that, actually.” His gaze fell on the little leather pouch before him. “And what did you have in here?”
He tugged on the drawstrings and dumped the contents out onto the table between them, careful to keep one hand on her sword.
For a full thirty seconds, the Preacher simply stared down at the collection of objects that had come tumbling out: a hockey puck, a tiny glass plaque with a penny trapped inside, a single gold holder, a torn and ragged printout of a photograph, and her phone.
“Well now, this is interesting, isn’t it?” He pressed one long finger on the center of the puck. “I have no idea what on earth this is…” His finger moved to the plaque. “But I haven’t seen one of these outside of the museum in years.” He tapped the photograph. “And this is a very nice picture, and…” he squinted down at it, frowning. “That’s you, isn’t it? Or some distant ancestor? He looked back and forth between the photo and her face, then shook his head. “No, that’s you, I think. And that’s not possible.” He stopped again, then chuckled softly. “Or, well, it shouldn’t be, anyhow.”
He picked up her phone. “I haven’t seen one of these outside of pictures. Even the museum doesn’t have one.” He ran his fingers over the glass. “Where did you find this, Emily?”
“It’s mine.”
He looked at her sharply, eyebrows raised, but he did not contradict her.
“Interesting.”
He set the phone down and sat back, studying her and apparently lost in thought.
The silence stretched on, and Emily could feel the sword calling to her as if it had a presence of its own, a voice of its own.
“What is it you want with me?” she said at last, breaking the silence. She wasn’t sure what she felt; she didn’t trust this Reverend Jefferson Blake, but she didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger.
“A woman of few words,” the Preacher said. “I like that too. And you ask the right questions. I wasn’t sure about you, I’ll be honest. Especially after your friends made their escape.”
A wave of relief washed over her, so intense that she had to look away. Corbb and the others had made it to freedom. Now she just prayed they’d stay away—far away.
Her gaze settled on a shelf behind the Preacher. A squarish box with a grill and pair of dials—a radio?—sat amidst other odds and ends. There were a couple of antique handguns, at least three or four leather-bound Bibles, and some kind of strange glass cube that Emily couldn’t quite get a handle on.
“I had thought they would be necessary, you see. Necessary to convince you to do what is right. But what man asks in humility, the Lord shall provide in his own way.” He laughed suddenly—a harsh, bitter sound that seemed at odds with his educated, almost professorial tones. “But what would you know of that? You, who have known nothing but sin.”
He stopped speaking, and Emily waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.
“What do you want with me?” she asked again, fighting to hide the unease that was growing inside her.
“For years, I have prayed. I asked the Lord, ‘Show me the way’. God Almighty gave us the earth, Emily. Gave it to mankind in all His infinite wisdom, and made us master over all the lands and the waters and the living things. And then the creatures of magic—the Devil’s children—they took it from us. They hid in our midst until they outnumbered us, and then they stole the very world that was ours by God’s will.”
Emily could feel her pulse quicken; she could hear it pounding in her ears. She looked back at the Preacher, but he seemed as calm and serene as ever.
“All my life, I prayed for an answer, and none came. But then, mere weeks ago, those among the evil creatures who call themselves the Dragon’s Brood came to our little corner of the world—our oasis from the demons, our haven.”
His lips curved into a bitter smile. “I see you know the name—the Dragon’s Brood. We have our spies. We know of them very well. They attacked our women in the dead of night, leaving their mark drawn in their victims’ blood.” He snatched a folded scrap of paper from the table and thrust it at her.
“Look!” he spat harshly, and all his serenity was gone, replaced by anger and genuine anguish. “Look at their monstrous, evil work.”
Numbly, Emily took the paper, unfolding it with trembling fingers.
It was a newspaper clipping dominated by a black-and-white drawing of a naked woman. She lay against the back of a building in a pool of her own blood, and above her, painted on the wall, was the unmistakable image of a dragon. It was black in the illustration, but Emily was quite sure that it had been scarlet in life.
She threw the scrap of paper back at him, wishing she’d never touched it.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “They brought the worlds back together—”
“Lies,” he snapped. “Tales they told us to hide their true nature. But we know better. For centuries, we have lived apart, but the Lord spoke to me. He spoke to me. He said it was I who must reclaim the earth from this infestation of demons. But I couldn’t. The Devil is cunning. The Devil is powerful, the Devil murders our mothers and our sisters and our wives in the dead of
night.”
Emily stared at him, horrified and unable to look away.
“And then it came to me, as if in a dream, the way in which God has always spoken to the greatest of his prophets. I needed a tool—one of the Devil’s own tools to use against him.” He smiled at her. “And now I have one…don’t I?”
Emily was on her feet and staggering backward.
“I won’t help you.”
“Oh, you will. I have what you want.” He tapped the hilt of the sword with one meticulously manicured fingernail.
“I don’t care…” Emily said, still backing away.
The Preacher stretched one thin hand out into the air before him, almost lazily, and slowly curled his fingers into a fist. Burning pain bloomed inside Emily’s chest as if his grip was closing around her heart with a hand of flame. He pulled his fist back, and Emily was yanked forward with it, caught like a fish on a hook.
“The Lord has delivered you into my hands, Emily,” he went on calmly, as if nothing were happening. “In time, you will repent of your sins. We have our ways of encouraging atonement, as many sinners can attest.” He twisted his hand slightly in the air, and the pain inside her intensified, growing to a crescendo. “You will use your power to return the earth to the righteous. It is God’s will.”
***
Emily sat in the darkness, her back against a cold metal wall, and thought of her friends. She did not regret what she’d done. She’d given Corbb, Celine, and the others a break for freedom, and they’d made the most of it. There was nothing more she could ask for. She was alone now among strangers, crazy bastards who wanted to use her…just like the wizard had wanted to…just as Marianne had. She was so tired of being used.
It’s all up to you now, Em, she thought. Make sure they can’t use you.
She thought of just days earlier, when she’d sat between Corbb and Celine in an abandoned tavern and wept for the world she’d lost. She remembered wondering what had become of all the things she’d known and loved; she’d wished she could find a trace of it—just a piece.
Be careful what you wish for…
If this was all there was left of the world from which she’d come—well, it would have been better left unfound.
The door at the back of the truck she’d been locked in slid open, filling the compartment with dazzling sunlight, and she squinted against it. The silhouette of a man was hoisting something small and indistinct into the back with her, and then the door slammed, leaving her in darkness once more.
For a moment, there was only silence, and Emily supposed the soldier had just tossed a sack of something in here with her, but then she heard something. It was a small sound, hardly more than a whisper, but it seemed very loud in the narrow space. Someone was sobbing.
“Hello?” she said softly, and there was a gasp, and then silence. She waited, but no answer came.
“Is someone there?” she asked again. There still was no answer, but there was someone there—she could sense them. A child, she thought—a child who was crying. And yes, she could hear them now. They were trying to cry silently, but she could make out the hitching breaths and quiet sniffles.
Cautiously, Emily crawled through the dark until she judged she was only inches away from her silent companion.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t bite.”
For some reason, that made the child laugh through the sobs, and Emily felt a small hand brush against her cheek. Slowly, she reached out and pulled the child toward her, wrapping her arms around the impossibly tiny form.
“Shhh,” she whispered, and the child—a girl, she thought—began to cry in earnest, burying her face in Emily’s chest. Awkwardly, Emily stroked her long, tangled hair.
“It’s all right,” she soothed. “I’ve got you.”
Minutes passed as Emily gently rocked the child, providing what comfort she could. She was so focused on her task—so intent upon doing what she could for the poor thing—that she didn’t even notice the low whine that slowly intruded on her consciousness, or the tingle that grew in her muscles.
When the knowing came, it was in the way it had been the night Celine had healed Michael while they were on the run from Marianne’s men. A series of snapshots filled her mind, each only there for a moment before it was swept away to make room for the next.
…Caireanne’s kind face, framed by a doorway looking grim and full of regret…
…Flip…
…A familiar dirty mirror that Emily recognized from her and Celine’s old room at Seven Skies; a small flyer girl’s reflection, perhaps four years old, stared out of it with inquisitive golden eyes. Her skin was a beautiful brown that made her flaming red hair seem all the more exotic…
…Flip…
…A crowded street full of panicked people, and there, sweeping her off of her feet and out of the way of an oncoming horse was Marcom’s grizzled countenance…
…Flip…
…A simple little bedroom with lace curtains at the windows…
…Flip…
…A battered copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz…
…Flip…flip…flip…
The images came faster, growing older and less distinct as they did. Glimpses of other lives began to show themselves, but not this girl’s lives. These were but links in a chain, each independent of the last, stretching back through generations, though how she knew this, Emily could not have said. Mothers…grandmothers…fathers…grandfathers…years upon years, stretching ever backward.
…Flip…flip…flip…
…The images changed…fashions and structures and places devolving backward through time…
…Flip…flip…flip…
And finally, after what seemed like an age, Emily found herself at the end of that chain in a brilliantly lit hospital room with white walls and tiled floors. A man, with those same golden eyes, stood beside a bed, cradling an infant in his arms—an infant with tiny—so very tiny—gossamer wings.
“She’s beautiful,” the woman in the bed said drowsily.
“She is.”
The woman laughed gently, almost to herself. “And you know what? She’s a flyer… ”
The man smiled, bending down to let the new mother see the babe, and as he did, Emily caught sight of the woman’s face through the crook of his arm.
“Casey…” she whispered into the dark.
Epilogue
The Jacks
The darkness on the mountain path was nearly absolute, as was the silence. Little grew on this lonely peak, and the animals all stayed away, with good reason. Even the snow seemed to shun these slopes.
Jack held aloft his burning bit of coal, carved into the visage of a grinning skull, letting its reddish light pool around him and his two companions. They, the other Jacks, did not need the light to see, but he did. He always had, and he’d come to relish that difference between them. Of their little trio, it was he who was the most human. There were those who would scoff at such a notion, especially the folk who had lived in the village where his life had begun so many, many years before. “Stingy Jack”, they’d called him then. “Old Man Jack”…“Drunken Jack”. Now, he was known mainly as Jack of the Lantern…a name he greatly preferred.
Behind him, he heard the crunch of metal boots in the dirt as the one they’d once called Spring-Heeled effortlessly matched his pace. The other, the Ripper, was as silent and as dark as a shadow. Long centuries had passed since they three had begun their work together, each bringing their own unique talents. A good team, they had been.
They crested a rise, and Jack halted. Before them, on a rocky cliff face, the enormous black maw of a cave seemed to swallow the shadows around it, devouring them like a hungry giant. No light could penetrate that place, as Jack knew very well. He tried once, but that had been a long time ago.
He waited, the other Jacks flanking him in the dark. He was their unquestioned leader, and always had been. They would allow him to announce their presence. It was his privilege.
>
“Master,” he called into the dark. “We have arrived.”
There was a long silence as his words echoed off the cliff and rolled away into the night. Somewhere far off, the wind moaned between distant spires of rock.
He felt the rumble of the voice vibrating through the soles of his loafers before he heard the words. When the Master spoke, it moved the heavens and the earth as one.
“What news do you bring?”
“It is done,” Jack said, his head bowed reverently. “All done, just as you commanded. Your people have the boy, and the Brood and Marianne will soon be at war now that Coalhaven has been destroyed.”
There was another long silence, and Jack braced himself for the question he knew would come next.
“And the girl?”
Jack took a deep breath. “The girl will not be a problem, Master.”
Slowly, he reached into his coat pocket where he kept his collection: coins of a thousand different kinds from a thousand different places. Each held a fragment of a soul; each was his to command. His fingers deftly found the right one without searching, just as they always had. He clutched it in his fist, taking it from his pocket and raising it up toward the cave. Slowly, his fingers opened, revealing the coin as it lay upon his palm.
It was an especially old coin—one that he had kept for more years than any other. It was a simple thing—small, round, silver. He could still feel the triumph he’d known when he’d obtained it at last, as if it were but yesterday. He remembered the brutal cold and the snow. He remembered the tweed coat he’d been wearing, and the army blanket he’d wrapped around himself. He could still see the McDonald’s Happy Meal box he’d cradled in his lap.
And yes, he remember the girl—the girl who’d rounded the corner with her hands in her pockets and a backpack on her shoulders. So willing she’d been to give him her coins…so willing.
“Emily Haven…is mine.”
There was a long, long silence.
A flash of flame bloomed for an instant in the depths of the cave, and then a curl of white smoke drifted upward through the light of Jack’s lantern and into the night sky.
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