by Ted Sanders
The house stank of brimstone.
And then something grabbed her by the leg, hoisting her roughly into the air. She swung upside down for a moment, captive—petrified and gasping. Her jithandra dangled, and a Mordin’s cruel face leaned in to leer at her in the red glow. “Looking for someone?” he sang. She recognized him, a long neck, high cheekbones, barely any eyebrows at all. This was one of the Mordin who traveled with Dr. Jericho, one of the Mordin who’d been there the night Chloe’s house burned down.
Chloe didn’t hesitate. She went thin, dropping free. The Mordin growled and swiped at her uselessly, his fingers knifing through her flesh as she fell. She let herself hit the floor and reached for the rack of tools on the fireplace. She grabbed a wrought-iron poker in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. Making them go thin as she spun, she plunged the tongs through the Mordin’s massive foot, deep into the floor and the concrete below. She let go.
The Mordin roared in pain, falling forward awkwardly. One of his great hands fell flat onto the floor, and Chloe pierced it with the poker, melding the poker in place. Another roar. The Mordin struggled, glaring at her, but he couldn’t get leverage, couldn’t break loose. Chloe skirted by him, headed through the house.
“What’s going on? Who are you?”
A fat man stood on the stairs in an enormous red bathrobe. Chloe started to say she was a friend of April’s, but she wasn’t sure that would be doing April any favors. “I’m just leaving,” she said. “You should too.”
“Stay right there!” the man thundered. He craned his neck, trying to look over to where the Mordin was still roaring. “What the hell is that?”
“That is . . . a very good reason for you to leave. It’s not safe here.”
“Leave?” the man shouted. “I’m not—”
Suddenly, a car horn bleated madly. Chloe heard the roar of an engine and the clatter of loose gravel. Beck!
And then, all at once, she was severed. No—not severed. She was ousted from the Alvalaithen, forced out by a furious invading presence. Against her will, she went thick. Her stomach dropped. The draonfly’s wings were still fluttering, but she wasn’t the one doing it.
She turned and saw an Auditor materializing through the far wall, leaping like a lion. The creature’s eyes blazed blue—it was the Auditor from the pier. She hurtled through the downed Mordin, face contorted with rage and long fingers extended like claws, barrelling straight at Chloe.
At the last possible second, Chloe regained a fingerhold on the Alvalaithen. She went thin again just as the Auditor tore at her—but not quite thin enough. The Auditor’s nails ripped gashes in Chloe’s sweatshirt, leaving deep furrows in her skin. Chloe toppled back into the dining room but quickly found her feet. The fat man, meanwhile, rumbled down the stairs and out the front door.
“I told you not to come here,” the Auditor seethed, her icy coolness gone. “We made a bargain.”
“You made a bargain with my mother,” Chloe said. “Not me.”
Inside the dragonfly, the Auditor’s poisonous presence balled up and then unclenched savagely, pushing with a ferocity that took Chloe’s breath away. Again she was evicted from her Tan’ji, and again the Auditor leapt. Chloe stumbled back, this time regaining possession of the dragonfly just as a whistling swing of the Auditor’s long arm swept through her, a blow that would have broken her arm had she not been thin. Chloe retreated into the kitchen, unwilling to slip out through the walls or the floor while her hold on the dragonfly was so tenuous. Dimly she realized that she couldn’t find even a drop of her usual rage. What was wrong with her?
“Afraid to go underground now, are we?” the Auditor taunted from the kitchen door. “Afraid I’ll do to you what you just did to my sister?”
Not my fault, Chloe thought, trying not to imagine what it must have felt like. Buried deep and dark forever, eaten by the earth. Unbidden, the memory of that horrible day so many years ago floated back to her. The ground like black bottomless water, with no shore in sight. Her legs sinking beneath the surface. “The dragonfly is mine,” Chloe said. “Your sister had no right to it, and neither do you.”
“It’s you who have no right, Tinker. Even so, we came for the empath, not you. I had no quarrel with you until now.”
“I wish I could say the same,” Chloe replied. Mustering up what anger she could, she tried to thrust the Auditor out of the Alvalaithen. But the Auditor held fast like a seawall in a storm, and countered with a mighty surge of her own. Chloe was swept away, evicted for a third time. And this time, when Chloe tried to reach for the Alvalaithen again, she found herself utterly blocked. Impossible. Unthinkable. The Auditor had hold of her Tan’ji, not granting an inch. Again Chloe tried to find her rage, but instead found something much worse, something that couldn’t help her now.
Fear.
Still Chloe kept reaching for the dragonfly, backing away to the far end of the kitchen. The Auditor crept closer, her blue eyes glinting madly and the red stone pulsing fast. “This is the end for you, Tinker,” she said, her words like blades. “Dolu ji’tatha, na’dola ji’daenu. You have my sympathy, but not my mercy.”
An ear-bursting crack! slapped the air. Chloe flinched even as she went thin—the Alvalaithen was hers again, the Auditor’s presence yanked loose completely. And now the Auditor was hurtling toward her through the air, not leaping but thrown, her beautiful cruel face rippling with pain. Chloe didn’t even have time to get out of the way. The Auditor flashed through her, hot and swift, crashing into the wall behind and crumpling in a silent heap.
Chest heaving, Chloe turned to find Mr. Meister standing in the kitchen doorway, his hand raised. Horace was at his side. She straightened, trying to find her spine, drinking deeply from the Alvalaithen and trying to forget that for a brief moment, it hadn’t been hers. She shoved her hands into her pockets and forced a scowl onto her face.
“What took you so long?” she said.
AS HORACE AND Mr. Meister ran through the woods toward April’s house, Horace heard a car engine approaching. Then the spit of gravel and the honk of a horn. When they emerged from the trees, they found Beck’s cab was sitting out front in a cloud of dust. The driver emerged and nodded at them. A moment later, Neptune dropped out of the sky onto the hood. “They’re coming,” she said, pointing. “April and Gabriel—they’re nearly here.”
As if on cue, April emerged from the darkness at the far corner of the house, seeming to appear from nowhere. An older boy was at her side, about Gabriel’s age. Her brother, no doubt. Beyond them, he could just make out a slippery patch of air that indicated the humour. But where was Gabriel?
“Dr. Jericho’s inside the humour,” April explained. “Gabriel’s keeping him busy.”
A moment later, a huge man stumbled out of the house, looking bewildered. He staggered to a halt, staring around in confusion.
“Uncle Harrison!” April cried.
“April, get your family into the cab,” Mr. Meister ordered. “Neptune, go to Gabriel. Tell him to bring the humour to the front of the house. Hide the cab. Once everyone is inside, we’ll take the humour down and deal with Dr. Jericho.”
Neptune nodded and sprang away. A few seconds later, she vanished into the humour.
Mr. Meister looked at Horace, at the phalanx in his hand. “Ready?”
But Horace wasn’t ready. Not remotely. “What about Chloe? Where is she?”
April’s uncle, who was reluctantly being led toward the cab, turned and called out, “I don’t know what you all are doing, or who you are, but there’s a girl in my house with a woman after her. If that girl’s your friend, you better get after her. Last I saw, she was getting cut up.”
Cut up? That was impossible. Horace sprinted toward the front door, Mr. Meister close behind.
A Mordin lay in the front room, apparently wounded. He seemed unable to move, and Horace saw why—his hand was pinned to the floor, right through the flesh. “You’re too late,” he sang when he saw them. Without think
ing, Horace fired the phalanx at him, pressing him against the ground as if a couch had landed on him. The Mordin struggled for breath.
They heard the Auditor from farther back in the house. Mr. Meister scampered through the dining room, raising his hand. From the next doorway, he fired his mysterious weapon, making the house tremble. Horace joined him just in time to see the Auditor crashing into the far kitchen wall. Chloe stood there cringing, looking as frightened and as small as he’d ever seen her. Then she saw them, straightened, and scowled.
“What took you so long?” she said.
“Overconfidence,” Mr. Meister said. “Come, we found April. It’s time to go.”
They returned to the front door, only to find that it opened into nothing. Literally nothing. Horace’s eyes refused to see outside, as if the world did not exist. Gabriel had brought the humour into the front driveway, as Mr. Meister had asked.
“Follow me into the humour,” said Mr. Meister. “Dr. Jericho is still out there. I’ll give Gabriel the word, and he’ll take the humour down so we can deal with the Mordin. Horace, have the phalanx at the ready.” Then he stepped forward and vanished from sight.
Horace refilled the phalanx, watching Chloe from the corner of her eye. Her face was ashen. “You okay?”
She tugged her hood up over her head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Tough night.”
“Not for me.”
He noticed that her sweatshirt was torn, three ragged slices. He thought he saw blood. However that had happened, she wasn’t ready to talk about it. “Let’s go then,” he said, and turned toward the door to nowhere.
But then something terrible happened. A hand emerged from the nothingness of the doorway, with fingers like tent stakes. Then a leg—long and thin and black. Finally a head, stooping through the doorway, black hair and beady eyes and a wide grin filled with tiny sharp teeth.
Dr. Jericho’s small black eyes widened when he saw them. “My dear Keepers!” he cried smoothly. “I’m so surprised to find you home.”
Without a word, without a thought, Horace whipped the phalanx forward, willing the power out the tip. The yellow light lit the Mordin’s face as he recoiled in shock, lurching back into the humour. The shot struck Dr. Jericho in the chest just as he vanished from sight.
“Whoa,” Chloe said. “Did you get him?”
“I got him,” Horace said. “I think he’s right—”
One of Dr. Jericho’s horrible hands groped suddenly out of the void, grasping the doorframe. His hideous, four-knuckled fingers curled and strained, digging furrows into the wood. But he clearly could come no closer.
“I got him,” said Horace. “But we’re definitely not going this way.”
“Why isn’t the humour coming down? Gabriel must be seeing this. It’s safe now.”
“Unless it isn’t.”
“Come on,” said Chloe. “Out the back.”
They ran through the house, burst out the back door, and hurtled down the steps. Just as they rounded the corner, though, Neptune suddenly alighted on the grass in front of them. “Not this way,” she said. “Come on.” She ran past them, across the backyard, toward the woods, explaining as she went. “The others just left. Four more Mordin showed up, and we couldn’t wait. Gabriel’s driving, if you can imagine that, with the cab in the humour.”
That explained why Gabriel hadn’t brought the humour down. “So what do we do?” Horace asked.
“Second verse, same as the first. The Riven will be distracted by their wounded, but we need to get away. We’ll head for the falkrete circle and go back home the way we came.”
“But everyone else is safe, right?” asked Horace. “Everyone got away.”
Neptune nodded. “Everyone but us,” she said merrily.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
What Lies Ahead
HORACE, CHLOE, AND NEPTUNE BROKE OUT OF THE WOODS AND hurried through the meadow, not quite running. Horace was exhausted, and hauling his big frame as fast as he could. He wasn’t sure how long Dr. Jericho would remain pinned, but Horace hoped to be long gone before he had a chance to find out.
Chloe ran in front, not daring to go thin. Neptune, whose tourminda was all but undetectable, was taking full advantage of her instrument, loping slowly at Horace’s side. Nonetheless, he noticed she seemed to be limping faintly, and the pinkie on her left hand was bent sideways, sticking out at an impossible angle. “Oh my god,” Horace blurted. “What happened to your finger?”
Neptune blinked at him with those big, innocent eyes. She spread her hands as she ran, letting her crooked pinkie stick out grotesquely. “What finger?”
“Uh . . . ,” Horace said.
“I’m kidding, of course.” Neptune glanced at her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s only dislocated. Mrs. Hapsteade will pop it back in.”
At last they arrived at the barn. They took out their jithandras and huddled around the falkrete circle. Neptune pointed to a stone that looked like the hump of a sea serpent. “Here’s our starting stone. I’ll have to go first, to re-mark the trail. We need to go faster than last time, so we can get out of here. Fifteen seconds between jumps?”
“That might be too fast for me,” Horace said. “I’m slow through the falkretes. But I’ll just go last.”
“No way,” Chloe said. “No one’s letting you go last. It should be me, and everyone knows it.”
“I’ll just slow you down.”
“You say that like it’s a new thing.”
“Chloe goes last,” Neptune said. “Look for the mints, and go as fast as you can. Now get inside the barn so I can have my privacy.”
Horace and Chloe hurried into the barn, their jithandras casting swaying shadows as they ducked beneath the tilting doorway. Horace took a cobweb to the face and swiped it away, spitting. They moved out of sight and stood there, waiting. Horace began counting automatically.
“You okay?” he asked Chloe quietly.
“Some ways yes, some ways . . . probably not.”
“You’re hurt,” he said, pointing to her torn sweatshirt.
“Just a scratch. That blue-eyed Auditor evicted me, and I couldn’t stay thin. She was so angry, and I just couldn’t . . .” She trailed off. “She deserved to be angry. I didn’t.”
“Because of what happened to the first Auditor, you mean,” Horace said gently. “She went underground with you, didn’t she? But she didn’t come up.”
“Has it been fifteen seconds yet?”
“Okay,” Horace said. “We’ll talk later.”
Chloe nodded, avoiding his gaze. But as he turned to go, she said, “That would be good.”
Horace went out to the falkrete circle. Neptune was gone. He unholstered the box and found the falkrete stone that looked like a sea serpent. Bracing himself, ready to force himself through, he laid the box against the stone.
Nothing happened.
Frowning, he lifted the box, then touched it to the stone again. And again.
Still nothing. No doubling, no other cloister.
“It’s not working!” he called out.
“Not with you shouting like that,” Chloe called back. “You’re very obviously here, and not there.”
“Very funny.”
“Are you sure it’s the right stone?”
“Come and see.”
Chloe came out of the barn and over to him. She squatted down beside him. “It’s the right stone, all right. Let me try.” She unhooked the dragonfly. Horace just sat there beside her, waiting, until finally she said, “Privacy please?”
“Oh, right. Duh.” Horace wandered over to the barn and slipped inside, somehow stumbling into another cobweb. As he swiped it away, a terrible thought occurred to him—maybe the falkrete stone wasn’t working because someone was watching. Maybe the Riven were out in the darkness, observing them, preventing them from leaving. His heart started to pound.
A moment later, though, Chloe spoke. “It’s working now—whoop! Okay, it was working until I said tha
t, and you heard me. That is so super weird.”
“But it’s working for you.”
“Yes.” A silent pause, while she apparently tried again, and then: “Yes.”
“Go ahead and go, then.”
“Nope, you first.”
“Chloe, just go. I’ll come right after, okay? Like ten seconds after.”
He heard her sigh. “Fine. But ten seconds. I’ll go super fast, so don’t be all gentlemanly and give me extra time.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious, Horace.”
“I got it. Just go already.”
“I’ll wait for you in the tunnels under the home cloister.”
Silence. Horace counted to five. “Chloe?” he called. No response. He was alone.
He hurried out of the barn and over to the falkrete circle, box still in hand. He crouched down beside the stone and—precisely at ten seconds—laid the box against it.
Nothing happened.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself, and tried again.
Still nothing.
Horace went cold. There was only one logical explanation for this.
Someone was watching him.
He stood up slowly. He spun in a circle, searching the wide darkness that surrounded him, but between the twenty-foot circle of light cast by his jithandra and the star-filled dome of the night sky overhead, there was only a wide expanse of utter black, sprinkled with fireflies. Anything could be out there. He strained his ears, listening hard.
He heard nothing but the buzz and swell of insects. He tucked his jithandra away, knowing his eyes would eventually adjust—starlight was actually decently bright, if you gave your eyes enough time to adapt. But Horace feared he didn’t have that time.
“Time,” he murmured. Of course—the Fel’Daera wasn’t hindered by darkness. He raised it to his eyes, preparing himself. It was 11:17, and the breach was still set to four minutes and thirty-four seconds. He opened the lid. Through the blue glass, a figure, startlingly close—Horace himself, just a couple of feet away, the phalanx in his hand, and twenty feet beyond, Dr. Jericho, tall and mutating; now, his long arms spreading wide as if in greeting, the lips of his many merging faces peeled back into a smile.
