“Earth survived the ice ages,” Wallstone said, pressing the point further.
“How well do you think humanity will do if one hits us all at once?”
“And global warming?”
“Sir, we know how to slow climate change. We knew before the magical spill.”
“Is there no way magic can be used to restore balance to the world?” Wallstone said.
“Objection.” The Alchemite lawyer rose. “Calls for speculation.”
“Your Honor,” “Wallstone said. “This witness has experience with vitagua and magical chantments, as well as a master’s degree in physics.”
“I’ll allow it,” Skagway said.
“False prophets like Sahara Knax prey upon human weakness,” Lucius Landon said. “It’s natural for us to wish for a painless way out of the world’s ecological problems. But if there were a quick fix, she’d have done it already.”
False prophet, Juanita thought. The archaic-sounding phrase struck a chord. She remembered Sahara’s prediction from the other night: You’ll be a believer, you’ll be in Indigo Springs with me at the end.
False prophecies. Garbage, in other words. The words were comforting. They cut Sahara down to size.
Wallstone continued playing devil’s advocate: “Magic shouldn’t be used to feed people, cure epidemics, relieve droughts?”
“Since when do we allow churches and amateurs to decide what society’s problems are, or how to solve them?”
“Ever hear of a soup kitchen, man?” one defendant called.
“Order,” Skagway said. “Young man, I won’t warn you again.”
“All right,” Wallstone said, “what if governments and experts wanted to employ magic in taking on society’s problems?”
“There are responsible ways to channel magic.”
“Such as?”
Landon produced a vial of coffee-colored fluid. “This is a potion.”
“A magical potion?”
“Yes. It was produced in a controlled environment and produces a limited magical outcome.”
“Now who’s the false prophet?” Sahara rose, sliding Juanita a wink. “Sorry, Your Honor—I can’t let this pass.”
The ladybug chantment was in her hand.
Juanita was on her feet, weapon drawn, safety off, adrenaline pumping.
Suddenly the room was full of starlings, hundreds of birds whirling above the ceiling. They were shrieking, their characteristic snnk-snkk noise rasping through Juanita’s skull like a hacksaw.
“It’s all right, my darlings,” Sahara said. “Everything is absolutely fine.”
And it was. Juanita hesitated. Her arm fell to her side, and she relaxed. For the first time in weeks—months—she felt safe. Looking at Sahara, she felt an upwelling of love.
“Gladys, dear,” Sahara said. “Unlock my friends, will you?”
Gladys scurried to comply. The Alchemites raised their hands to be uncuffed; they had their heads lowered and their lips were moving. We should all be praying, Juanita thought, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Sahara.
She was getting woozy.
That was all right. Sahara would take care of everything.
“Stay with me,” Sahara ordered the camera operator at the back of the courtroom. She sauntered to the witness box, plucking the potion from the hand of the witness.
Landon didn’t object. He looked a bit green. Good, Juanita thought; now she hated both of them, these two Landon men with their Goddess-hating rants.…
Sahara spoke: “Children of the technofilth, you have done me great harm. Here I sit, chained, beaten down—”
Cries of outrage rippled through the courtroom.
That’s a lie. Juanita felt a tickle of defensiveness.
“You foul my air, burn my sacred groves, devour my creatures, and persecute my followers.”
We never beat you, Juanita thought. Her head cleared a little. Her knee trembled with the effort of holding her weight. Her right hand, her gun hand, was getting heavy. One of the older lawyers had sunk into a chair.
“Let me finish what I have begun. I will return to my sacred grove and bestow enchantment upon you all. This man lies! I can end food shortages, fix the weather, eliminate racism and religious strife—”
Juanita’s heart fluttered, captivated by the sight of Sahara, aglow, divine. Yet …
False prophet, the inner voice repeated.
“I offer peace of mind, good health, and prosperity,” Sahara said. Birds settled in a carpet around her, covering the floor, the tables, soiling the paperwork of the trial.
She’s weeping, Juanita thought. We made her cry, we broke her heart. She gasped for air, chest aching with every breath. The old lawyer had lost consciousness.
“My oppressors will pay.” Sahara wiped a hand over her teary face, creating a blue-red smear on her skin. She placed her palm against the cheek of the prosecutor.
Wallstone staggered back, clawing at his face. Feathers sprouted from his jaw.
Blood and vitagua in Sahara’s tears, the rebellious, unbelieving part of Juanita whispered. She’s infected him, and she’s killing us, vamping our life force to power the ladybug.
Wallstone choked, a deep anguished sound.
A familiar, gut-deep tearing within Juanita’s psyche: She wanted to believe … she’d been rudderless for so long.…
Sahara wiped her face again, starting toward the judge.
No. Juanita strained to move the only muscle she could. She pulled the trigger on her service weapon. The ear-shattering bang startled everyone. She felt the shock of the bullet hitting the floor.
A few of the defendants faltered in their prayers.
It was enough. Judge Skagway wrenched his chair back, beyond Sahara’s poisoned, outstretched hand.
Glass tinkled, barely audible over the prosecutor’s shrieks. Then there was a loud whump, like a gas stove igniting, a rush of heat. Juanita’s stomach flipped; she gagged, expecting to inhale a reek of burnt feathers—but the birds were gone.
And Sahara was just Prisoner One again. Red plastic slag—the ladybug chantment—dripped from her fingers.
“Thank God,” Juanita muttered. For once, saying it didn’t make her feel like a hypocrite.
She crossed the floor to Sahara, who was shouting at the camera. “You will release me! It’s only a matter of time!”
“It’s over, Sahara, cut it out,” Juanita said.
The observers in the viewing gallery were pale; a few had fainted. Roche was performing CPR on the fallen lawyer.
“Damn,” Sahara said. “I thought we’d got to my big escape.”
“No such luck,” Juanita said.
“Fireworks ain’t quite over.” Sahara grinned.
The prosecutor, Wallstone, wheeled suddenly on the witness. “Tell me, Mr. Landon—”
Judge Skagway broke in. “We’re out of session, Counsel.”
Wallstone bulldozed on, “Do you believe you can oppose the will of the Goddess?” His voice, Juanita realized, was Sahara’s. He stepped toward the jury, provoking cries of fear.
Gilead Landon put himself between them, sparks sizzling on his burned palms.
“You are Befouled,” he said, looking past Wallstone, addressing Sahara. “You’re sick.”
Wallstone lunged at him. His rapidly growing hair had starling markings. “I am everywhere and nowhere, I am the mountain and the grain of sand, I am—”
Gilead threw the prosecutor, deftly laying him out on the floor, where, pinned, he continued to twist and change. His features were shifting, his face becoming like Sahara’s.
The witness, Lucius Landon, stepped out of the box and put a hand on Sahara’s neck. She swooned. The courtroom fell silent.
“You saved our asses there,” he said to Juanita, sotto voce, as the two of them lowered the prisoner to the ground.
Juanita’s heart sank. What would the Alchemites do to her family now?
“You must be real fond of that old man.” Gilead Lan
don had joined them. “Nobody else managed to resist the spell.”
Juanita’s eyes dropped to Sahara. Definitely unconscious. What to do? “We need to talk,” she whispered.
Gilead held out a cheap-looking glass pendant—a flame—on a steel chain, waiting until she put her hand out, palm up, and then dropping it into her grasp.
“What’s this?”
“Sea-glass,” he said. “Reacts with vitagua. If you’d been Befouled, it would burn.”
“Do I pass?”
He nodded ever so slightly. “I have an office in the old hangar. Meet me there after this mess is all sorted. Keep the pendant.” With that, he drew his … cousin? brother?… aside.
“Corazón!”
“Coming, Your Honor.” She handed Sahara over to Gladys and headed for the bench. “You all right, sir?”
“Yeah.” The judge didn’t look okay: he looked sick. “They vamped us. We need a round of the high-carb milk shakes.”
“Maybe someone here has a protein bar for you—”
“Those things are foul, Corazón. I’m hitting the stash of cookies in my chambers.”
“You judges and your perks.”
“I’m an important guy, Marshal.”
“Yeah,” she said, “you are.”
His eye fell on Wallstone. “That could’ve been me.”
Juanita nodded. “We got lucky.”
“That’s another of your nine lives.” He gave her a fond grin. “Get these troublemakers locked up, will you?”
Locking up the prisoners, getting calories into everyone who’d been vamped, and moving Wallstone into medical isolation took over an hour. Getting her station covered and freeing up some time took another. When Juanita finally crossed the hangar to Gilead’s office, though, he was waiting.
He had an office in the administration building. It had a churchy smell of incense and burnt wax, and its door was encrusted with dull glass tiles. Sea-glass, Juanita guessed, like the pendant he’d given her.
“Watch your step,” he said as she came inside. A thick chain of glass lumps had been nailed in place around the perimeter of the room. “I don’t have long. Roche has called a meeting to see if anyone can figure out how Sahara got that ladybug chantment.”
“What are the chances of that?” she asked.
“Hard to say. Someone’s helping her. That much is obvious.”
She eyed the crystals. Black and white powder clung to the irregular beads, dulling their surfaces. “Is that salt?”
“We call it rosarite,” he replied. “It’s a holy chain made of sea salt, sea-glass, and gunpowder.”
“What’s it for?”
“Creates a sacred space. Magic won’t work here.”
“Could you do this to the courthouse?”
“Sanctify it?”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Ah, you’re offended. Disenchant, then.”
“I’m not offended,” she lied.
“You Catholic?”
“Ex. Can you?”
“I could do the whole base.”
“Why haven’t you? If it would’ve prevented Sahara’s outburst.”
Gilead let out a long sigh. “Nobody consulted us when they set this place up.”
“Sahara got the drop on us all.” And it was her fault, Juanita thought.
“We looked like bozos,” Gilead agreed. “Lucius was meant to present alternatives to Alchemism.”
“To the jury or the viewing public?”
“Both. Sahara’s stunt blew our whole show.”
“She has a great sense of theater,” Juanita said. “So … about this rosarite stuff.”
“The problem is I’m here in an unofficial capacity. The general’s taken a few of my suggestions, but…”
“But?”
He seemed to weigh whether he should go on, and then grimaced. “I screwed up. Suggested a precision strike on Indigo Springs, told him I could protect the air force.”
“And?”
“Astrid Lethewood has been messing with the pilots, sending their planes off course. It’s a parlor trick—it doesn’t take much power. She’s squeamish about killing people, you see.”
“Gosh, that’s rotten of her,” she said sarcastically.
“Oh, she’s no saint. I gave each pilot a potion, to protect them. But I underestimated her power resources. She had enough juice to sabotage the planes.”
“Couldn’t you protect them too?”
“Wrapping a precision flying machine in rosarite’s not really feasible.”
“Anyone die?”
He shook his head. “She did millions in damage to the hardware. Roche is in trouble with the joint chiefs, so I’m in trouble with him.”
“Well … Lethewood’s not going anywhere, is she?” she said. “Seems to me Sahara’s the bigger problem.”
“You saw what happened in St. Louis.”
“That was Alchemites.”
He shook his head. “Sahara’s just taking credit.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You’re tight with the judge. If he tells Roche to disenchant the base…”
He might be willing to order it. “The chantments would stop working?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, I’m missing something. I get that Roche is pissed at you, but to the extent of leaving the base vulnerable? Wouldn’t he want the place magic-proofed?”
“You forget—the government’s in the chantment-stealing business too. Roche has confiscated magic from the Alchemites. They’re useful; he likes them.”
“So if I convince the judge and he orders you to … disenchant the base, the magic stops working?”
“That’s it in a nutshell.”
And with the chantments out of commission, maybe Juanita could report Heaven. Something could be done to protect her family.
“Well?” Gilead asked.
“If I put my neck on the line for you, I want something.”
“Like?”
“Teach me how you fight them.”
He winced.
“Problem?”
“There aren’t any women in the Brigade.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
He sighed, leaning on his desk. “Our prophets say that when the End of Days is upon us, our fate passes to a Lady of Lies.”
“Sahara?”
“No, Astrid Lethewood,” he said. “Knax is merely a handmaiden.”
“Handmaiden? Sahara hates Astrid Lethewood.”
“Yet she serves Indigo Springs, in her way.”
“How so?”
“She’s spreading magic, isn’t she?”
“She’s not doing it for Lethewood.”
“America’s watching the rook and ignoring the queen.”
“I’m not much for chess, and it shouldn’t stun you to hear that I’m in favor of bringing criminals to trial,” Juanita said. “It was Sahara who sank the Vigilant, after all. What’s this about a Lady of Lies? Why can’t I learn to fight chanters?”
He pulled an ancient-looking book from a locked drawer, reading: “The Lady will strike down our greatest warrior, thereby sealing the fate of the world.”
“Because of this, you don’t let girls in your club?”
“Medieval, huh?” He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Lee Glade is dead. Lethewood killed him. It translates, ‘he is blind to her nature, and she strikes him in a moment of weakness.’”
“Does that fit with what happened to Glade?”
“As far as we know. Lee was—” He lit up. “You should’ve seen him. Greatest of us all, no doubt in my mind.”
Gilead was sure the prediction had come true. For centuries, he explained, his Brigade had excluded women, assuming the threat would come from within. It was typical biblical sexism: Eve and the serpent, women as the root of sin.
“It’s an old society, Juanita. The men of the Middle Ages weren’t feminists.”
“I suppose you are?”
>
“I’ve been wanting an opportunity to talk to my uncles. If the prophecy’s come to pass, why not recruit women? You’re perfect. Having a member of the Brigade close to Knax and—”
“And who?”
“I’ll see what I can do. It won’t hurt that you’re a good Catholic girl. Sorry, ex-Catholic.”
“Mamá would be so proud,” she said dryly. Knax and who? The only person at Wendover she might be called close to was …
The judge.
That night she made it to Ramón, in dreams, for a scant minute. He was wandering an old-looking version of Paris, watching horse-drawn carriages clip-clop past on a stone bridge. He raised a hand in greeting.
Then Sahara turned up: “So, darling, you’re buddying up to Roche’s new best friend?”
“He gave me hell for letting you pull that stunt in court today,” Juanita said. “I asked to learn his brand of magic.”
“Sounds like you’ve forgotten which team you’re on.”
“Me, forget?” She looked at her brother pointedly. He was flirting with a woman Juanita recognized from his unit.
“Being surly won’t change your situation.”
“You made me look bad today, Sahara. I took an opportunity to cover my ass.”
“Opportunity? To cozy up to a guy who wants to burn me?”
“What was I supposed to say: ‘You’re right, I’m incompetent, fire me’?”
“You won’t be fired, darling. We’re together at the end—”
“Whatever that means.”
“As for your consorting with the enemy—”
“Aren’t you curious about those potions they were waving around in court, Sahara? Gilead’s the one who knows about them.”
Sahara pursed her lips. “All right, see what you can find out. And Juanita?”
“Yes?”
“I haven’t forgotten that it was you who broke my spell today.” With a sound of wingbeats, she was gone.
Sahara’s departure jolted her awake. She sat up in bed, taking deep breaths, fingering the sea-glass pendant as she battled with the fear.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE NEWS WAS ON, as it always was, in the old train station, the oak benches facing the glassed-in television occupied by an assortment of volunteers who were taking a break from saving the world to catch up on developments at Wendover.
As Will stepped out of Bramblegate, he paused behind the benches. On-screen, Sahara’s outburst was replaying in slow motion. “Any word on Wallstone?”
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