by Ted Sanders
“They will be here soon,” Gabriel said.
Derek dragged a hand down his face, clearly struggling to absorb it all. “And it’s April they want.”
“It’s April we must protect,” Gabriel said, not bothering to mention that he himself was also in danger.
Baron surged to his feet again. He broke into great, bounding barks. Rage and fear poured off him as the faint smell of brimstone suddenly blossomed in his nose, piercingly overpowering. And now distant footsteps too, stealthy and slow, moving through the woods out back. April spun, staring, her eyes straining to the see the source of the noises Baron heard.
Her memory doubled over on her, remembering the night just a handful of days before—how she’d sat on the roof staring into these same woods over the head of this same barking dog. Only this time, she knew what she was looking for. A moment later, she realized she was smelling the brimstone herself now.
Baron bounded across the yard stiff legged, still barking his savage challenge. And now from the rooftop, Arthur stood and let out a raucous complaint of his own, gobbling and hissing, puffing out his feathers and bringing an instant crop of goose bumps to the surface of April’s skin.
Derek stared up at the bird. “That is . . . freaking me out.”
As if in response, from somewhere in the woods on the opposite side of the house, a faint, far-off shriek cut through the darkness. Gabriel cocked his head sharply, clearly hearing it. Human, or Riven?
Gabriel frowned and stepped in close, the worry apparent on his face. “Get down,” he murmured.
April hunkered down at once. She grabbed Derek’s hand and pulled him down beside her. His brow was wrinkled with consternation, but small fires of fear burned deep in his eyes. April’s heart broke a little—her big brother, always her protector, the closest thing she’d had to a father for most of her life. Yet here he was, confused and helpless, unable to protect her from the greatest dangers she’d ever faced. “It’s okay,” she told him. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
He nodded hastily, not even objecting, and for some reason this tiny surrender made tears bolt up in her eyes.
“I must keep it small,” said Gabriel. “Do not move. Do not try to get out.” He held his staff perfectly vertical, its silver tip just in front of April’s face. Three claws, drawn into a point. Smoky tendrils began to drift from the gaps between them.
Derek looked up at him, bewildered. “Get out of what?”
April, who had not forgotten the senseless confusion of the humour back on the riverbank, knew what was coming. She squeezed Derek’s hand. “Close your eyes,” she said. “Trust me.”
Derek nodded again, and shut his eyes.
“Stay together,” Gabriel said gently, and then the world deleted itself.
Derek cried out as the gray nothing of the humour consumed them, his voice blurring as if he were underwater. He reared back, but April clung to him, refusing to let go, knowing that her touch was one of the few sensations he had in this void. “It’s okay,” she told him, her voice like liquid. “It’s okay.”
She herself felt stunningly calm. She knew what Derek was experiencing—she’d been in the humour back on the riverbank, and it had been horrible, a total loss of senses. A kind of prison that had no walls, no nothing.
But not anymore. Not for April.
With the Ravenvine at full power, the humour couldn’t hold her.
She could see. She could hear. Not inside the humour, of course, but outside. From the roof of the house, Arthur gazed down into the yard, and April was out there with him, sipping cautiously at his vision, escaping from this impenetrable fog. She kept her power to a trickle, hoping Isabel had been right when she’d said empaths were hard to detect, hoping that the raven’s eye would help mask her still. She had to see what was happening beyond this blindness. Baron was out there. The Riven were coming.
In the middle of the yard Arthur’s sharp eyes revealed a faint shimmer, a sliver of lawn that resisted being seen. The humour. Gabriel was indeed keeping it small, an invisible cloak wrapped tightly around their huddled forms. How phenomenal to think that she was in there—and Derek and Gabriel, too. April had no idea what the humour was made of, or how it worked, but it was a fiendish trick. Even Arthur, curious and keen, could not truly lay his eyes on it. He crowed experimentally, questing, calling for April. Meanwhile at the edge of the yard, Baron was still standing his ground, barking wildly. She didn’t reach out for the dog, mindful not to draw attention to herself. She tried to focus solely on Arthur’s eyesight, keeping the Ravenvine at a low throttle, just like the humour was now.
Suddenly Gabriel’s voice filled April, coming from everywhere, regal and calm. “Hold out the raven’s eye.”
For a second April thought he meant Arthur, and she had no idea what he was asking for. Then she remembered the leestone in her hand, still warm. She held it out. Gabriel wrapped her hand in his, sandwiching the raven’s eye between their two palms.
“It won’t last long,” he said.
And then, suddenly, through Arthur’s eyes she saw towering shadows, knifing forward from the forest. Baron’s barks took on a round, fearful shape, and then he lost his nerve completely. He skittered away, whining and yelping, and—after seeming to look around for April and Derek—ran down the path toward Doc’s house and out of sight.
April watched as the Mordin stepped out of the woods and onto the lawn, first one and then another, and then a third, tallest of all. “They’re here,” April said. “Three Mordin, including Dr. Jericho.”
Gabriel’s hand went slack atop hers. “You can see outside,” he said, his voice dreamy with surprise. And of course—Gabriel had no way of seeing beyond the boundaries of the humour. April was giving him sight he could never hope to have on his own.
“Through Arthur, yes,” she said. “Just a trickle.”
“This is . . . very good,” Gabriel said with a warm rumble. “One raven’s eye inside, two raven’s eyes outside. Watch the Mordin, then. Once they’ve gone past us, we’ll slip away. Warn me if they get too close, if they seem too curious.”
Derek’s voice rang out in the void. “I can’t hear what you’re saying,” he said. “What’s happening?”
April just squeezed his hand again, understanding that Gabriel didn’t want him to hear what was happening.
Out in the yard, the Mordin were coming closer, moving very slowly toward the house. Arthur was burning with rage, shifting uneasily along the gutter and occasionally cutting loose with a shrill cry of warning. Although the bird’s eyesight was acute, the view sometimes disoriented April—he kept flicking his head from side to side, and his field of vision was much wider than April was accustomed to. Nonetheless, she could see the Mordin clearly. She could still see the humour too, slippery and all but invisible, lying in the Mordin’s path. The first Mordin passed by without so much as a glance. The second, just a few feet away, looked straight at the humour and seemed to briefly do a double take. April opened her mouth, but the Mordin kept walking.
“Breathe,” Gabriel said from everywhere.
April hadn’t realized she wasn’t. She forced her lungs to work as Dr. Jericho approached. He was coming closer than the others. The humour was practically at his feet now, but still he didn’t see. Instead, his beady black eyes were locked on Arthur. It felt as though he were staring straight at April. How strange it was to be seen and unseen at the same time. April joined Arthur in glaring back at the Mordin, feeling the bird’s hatred, letting it become her own, letting her fear slowly evaporate.
But then Dr. Jericho stopped just beside the humour. He stood so close that he could have bent down and touched April’s hair, had he only known she was there. Arthur squawked at him and strutted up the slope of the roof as the other two Mordin began to mount the porch steps. Dr. Jericho continued to watch the raven with apparent interest. “Who’s a pretty bird, then?” he crooned pensively.
“He’s right beside us,” April whispered. “H
e’s staring at Arthur. I think he’s figuring it out.” Between her and Gabriel’s clasped hands, she was sure she could feel the warmth of the raven’s eye fading away.
“Be ready,” said Gabriel. “Move when I say move. Go where I tell you.”
April thought she knew what Gabriel planned to do. He was going to spread the humour wide, burying the Mordin in it, blinding them. But that would announce their presence to every Riven in the area, wouldn’t it?
Slowly Dr. Jericho turned his head. He peered suspiciously down at his side, straight down at the humour. April squeezed Gabriel’s hand.
A huge sharp crack!—almost like a gunshot—ripped through the silence outside the humour. Arthur startled, squawking, and April jumped too. Despite herself, she released Derek and Gabriel and slapped her hands over her ears. The raven’s eye fell free.
“What is it?” said Gabriel.
“Something happened. A sound.”
“What kind of sound?”
April kept herself open to Arthur, bringing the outside world into this lonely fog. Dr. Jericho was standing up straight now, staring alertly off toward the woods on the north side of the house. The other two Mordin spoke to each other quietly, clearly alarmed. Then Dr. Jericho issued a few curt words of command, and the two Mordin sprang into action. One leapt off the steps and slunk around the corner of the house toward the sound they’d all heard. The other, frighteningly, ducked his head and continued up onto the porch, out of sight.
No sooner had Arthur lost sight of the two Mordin than the sound came again, again making April jump. Thak!
“There it was again,” she said. “One of the Mordin is chasing after it. It’s like a . . . gunshot, or something. But not like that. What is it?”
“It is the cavalry,” Gabriel said, his voice swelling with satisfaction. “The Wardens have come for us.”
April laughed, sagging with relief. The Wardens were here. Horace and Chloe and the rest.
She reached out through the fog for Derek, trying to find him again, to reassure him. Her finger grazed his skin, and he let out a cry. She felt him recoil violently, heard Gabriel’s warning shout.
And through Arthur’s eyes, horrified, she saw Derek tumble suddenly into existence right at Dr. Jericho’s feet.
HORACE WATCHED AS Neptune dropped like a stone. His first thought was that Isabel had severed her again—but that was impossible, wasn’t it? And then a second before Neptune hit the ground, her acceleration slowed. She got her feet beneath her and landed hard, her powerful legs bending deeply. She sprang lightly back into the air, clearly recovering, pinwheeling her arms for balance. She hit the ground again running and sprinted toward them.
“Auditor,” she said breathlessly, turning to search the shadows back the way she’d come.
“You let an Auditor evict you?” Mr. Meister asked sharply, also scanning the shadows now.
“She caught me by surprise, okay?” Neptune said, sounding chagrined. “I came across three Mordin along the driveway, in front of the house. Then that dog started barking around back. And that bird! I got distracted. The Auditor ambushed me. She hit me hard and pushed me right out—just for a second.” She craned her neck, still trying to see.
Apparently the Auditor had pushed Nepture’s presence out of the tourminda. Horace hadn’t even considered that such a thing was possible. The dog went on barking, unnerving him. He stared into the night, looking for any hint of movement among the trees.
“I believe I may have underestimated the Riven’s interest in April,” Mr. Meister said softly. Then he straightened and began barking out orders. “Split up. Auditors are at their most powerful when we’re together. Chloe, you head for the house—”
A voice cut through the night air, a voice made of silk and sand. “Oh, please, no. Let all of us remain. I do like a party.”
Horace gripped the phalanx at his side, wishing he were more sure how to use it. As for the Auditor, she remained unseen in the darkness, but he could hear furtive footsteps out in the gloom up ahead.
Chloe stepped up close to Horace. “I’m leaving,” she muttered. “It’s me she wants most—my power.”
Baron’s angry barking stopped at last. What was happening up at the house?
“I’m coming with you,” Horace said low.
Chloe shook her head, adamant. “No. You stay with Mr. Meister.”
“I hear your whispers,” the Auditor said, still unseen and seeming to circle to the right. “But you cannot escape. Ji’karo mufali—I am everywhere.”
Abruptly—horrifyingly—another voice broke out, nearly identical to the first. But now it came from behind them: “Ji’karo mufali. I am everywhere.” And then off to the left, closer still, a tinkle of gritty laughter that faded and became words: “Ji’karo mufali Quaasa.”
Three Auditors. The Riven were definitely interested in April. Horace shook the phalanx, desperate to have it do anything. What had Mr. Meister said? It would channel energy from the box?
“Do not fear,” Mr. Meister said quietly. “Remember, whether it’s one Auditor or eleven, they can never be stronger than we are. Split up—that way they won’t be able to leech multiple powers at once like they did on the riverbank.” Neptune nodded and launched into the air.
A beat later, Arthur’s hoarse warning call rang out. Chloe turned toward the sound, the Alvalaithen seeming to glow in the darkness, its wings already a blur. “I’m going under.”
“Chloe, no!” Horace said. Arthur crowed again.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let go. I’ll find Gabriel and April.”
“Whispers, whispers,” one of the Auditors crooned creepily, somewhere out in the night, and then the others took up the chant, circling them—whispers, whispers, whispers. Off to the right, one of them laughed and said, “Tinkers love their secrets. Want to hear one of ours?”
Heavy footsteps seemed to shake the earth. A huge dark shape slashed through the air. A Mordin, leaping into their midst, reaching for Horace.
With a speed that seemed impossible for his years, Mr. Meister spun and raised his hand, pointing it at the Mordin. A chest-slapping crack split the forest—thack! —and a blast of air rushed past Horace, ruffling his hair. But the Mordin, struck dead-on, was blown back forty feet. He smashed against a tree and crumpled, grimacing.
“Split up, I said!” the old man cried. “Go!”
Chloe tugged at the chain of her jithandra. “Look for my light.”
Horace could only nod. The next instant, Chloe vanished, falling into the earth like a trapdoor had opened beneath her.
A moment after she disappeared, a pale figure streaked by, legs pumping and braid swinging. Mr. Meister again raised his hand—he held something small and black—but apparently he could not get a bead on the Auditor. The Auditor glanced over with a wild grin, her eyes as black as coals. She sprinted on past, and Horace thought he knew why.
She was after Chloe.
But Horace hardly had time to worry. Another Mordin barreled into their midst—short for a Mordin. Mr. Meister spun and fired a second shot with his mysterious weapon. A second crack ripped through the night. But the short Mordin spun and stumbled, dodging it. A tree twenty feet on trembled as if struck by an invisible car.
“Pin him, Horace!” the old man cried. “Pin him!” Even as he spoke, another Mordin lurched into view behind him.
Horace had no idea what to do. He lifted the phalanx, pointing it, but nothing happened. The first Mordin lunged and wrapped a huge, hideous hand around Horace’s shoulder, grasping him under the armpit and beginning to lift him. The Mordin grinned, reaching for the Fel’Daera.
“I’ll just hold this, shall I?” he croaked. And then a rotten log the size of a park bench dropped out of the sky and crushed the creature into the ground with a nauseating crunch and an explosion of splintered wood. Horace fell back, freed. The Mordin groaned and stirred but did not rise. In a patch of clear sky overhead, a hovering Neptune saluted down at Horace. But as he watched, a
gleaming white figure, also airborne, streaked in silently and tackled her. Neptune and the Auditor floated out of sight over the treetops, tussling.
Meanwhile, down below, the second Mordin was still on his feet, circling Mr. Meister warily. He seemed to be moving with a limp, favoring his right leg. “Any other tricks in your pockets, Tinker?” the Mordin sneered. His face was monstrously ugly, even for a Mordin.
“Remember, draw on the power that belongs to you,” Mr. Meister said, his eyes never leaving the Mordin’s hideous face. “And then exert your will.”
It took Horace a moment to realize that the old man was talking to him. He looked down at the phalanx. “The power that belongs to you.” Horace reached out for the Fel’Daera, summoning its strength. He placed the tip of the phalanx against the box. He squeezed, almost as if trying to adjust the breach, and miraculously began to feel power seeping into the phalanx. He could swear the phalanx grew heavy in his hand.
The Mordin with the limp, still circling, was watching the phalanx with a look of wary disgust. As he did so, Mr. Meister caught Horace’s eye and—ever so faintly, eyebrows raised high—he demonstrated swinging his left hand with a smart flick of the wrist. But no sooner had Horace absorbed the gesture than another Mordin hurtled into their midst. He ran straight at Horace, not slowing in the least.
Horace practically groaned with exasperation. How many Mordin could there be? Barely aware of what he was doing—out of anger and frustration more than anything else—Horace flicked the phalanx at the newcomer. “No!” he shouted.
A brief pulse of light lit the forest, yellow and cloudy, as a churning golden ring emerged from the tip of the phalanx with an almost silent whump! The light faded instantly, but a rippling cloud of distortion raced through the air like a spirit. It struck the approaching Mordin in the chest, and the Mordin slammed to a halt, midstride. He hung in the air, one foot off the ground, arms flailing, his tiny eyes wide with shock. He gasped for breath as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him.
Across the way, Mr. Meister casually lifted his hand, pointing it at the ugly, wide-eyed Mordin in front of him. But before he could fire his mysterious weapon, the Mordin reached up into the tree above and hoisted himself into the branches like some great, gangly ape. He melted quickly into the darkness overhead.
