Aakesh did not gloat, but he did permit himself a small and perfect smile as he waved his hand.
The water trembled. Deep and frightening vibrations rattled through the landfall and through Harry’s bones and into his teeth as something rose, rose, rose from the water like the dawning sun, smooth and long and as tall as Harry could reach. A wall, but not a wall: a canvas, huge, smoother than mud had any right to be and achingly perfect for painting.
Harry stared.
Aakesh’s too-hot hand closed around his, over the brush. “Paint something,” he whispered against Harry’s ear.
Harry shuddered, but did not shove him away. Aakesh could command this, but he wasn’t commanding. He was asking, cajoling, suggesting. It was still Harry’s choice.
Harry stood. The jars of paint rose in the air to follow him like trained puppies, but he’d seen too many wonders today to find that strange, and accepted it with a shake of his head.
The wall was smooth to the touch, but slightly textured. Perfect. He sighed in surrender. “Okay,” he said, and reached for the orange paint. “Okay. I will.”
NEVERAGAINNEVERAGAINNEVERAGAIN
There would be no future invasion. Humans still existed in the universe—she could feel them like crawling fungus. She knew how humans worked: when an assault failed, they rallied and came back for more.
They would not come back here on their own terms with more machines and further heinous surprises. She would go to them instead and never let it start.
Jason Iskinder’s knowledge had surpassed his understanding. He’d observed how non-humans used magical travel between worlds, though he’d rejected it and never taught his descendants. She knew all she needed to know.
She’d track them down.
She’d hunt them.
She’d go to their dead world, the world they’d murdered, and her children would have all the toys they wished.
There would be no mercy this time.
● ●
No One Writes Alone
From 2011 to 2012, Marsh, Dr. Hsu, my grandmother, and mother passed away. I am a product of how they lived.
Nobody read this book as many times (or in as many versions) as Celine and Bennett. I can never thank them enough.
Sarah and Zack convinced me I wasn't crazy. When Zack threw the manuscript across the room, I knew the story worked.
Jason lent his brain, which doubles as a spotlight on weekends. And no, the villain is not named after him.
Tom Benedek and Scott Myers were bastions of encouragement and professionalism, and will probably be very surprised to find their names in this book.
Nicole came through as the dream-editor I always wanted, and any mistakes are one hundred percent mine alone.
Miranda never panicked when I did. She also reminded me to sleep. I needed that.
J.M. Frey has supported me since ye olde fanfiction days, and helped me keep going when it got tough.
As for Duane, my beloved and best friend: I pray our dreams keep coming side by side. So far, they've worked out pretty well.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Story-herder, plot-bunny curator, and weird humor connoisseur, Ruthanne is a woman of mystery because most of her hobbies are done in the dark. She’s ventured out to teach classes on world-building and writer’s-voice, and she’s taken some nifty pictures, which she posts on Instagram when no one is looking. She also has a popular Twitter feed which is the epitome of random.
Ruthanne is simply herself, and herself is a professional dealer of cat pictures. Currently, she lives in Long Island City, happily married to the IT programmer of her dreams.
To learn more (or begin an ordinary conversation), subscribe to her free email newsletter or send her an email.
The Sundered Page 29
