“Granting wishes, remember?” Astrid said. “That’s what genies do.”
“If you’re screwing with me…”
“Cross my heart, hope to die, stick some sea-glass in my eye.” Astrid ran a finger over a ripening lemon. “We have someone here day in, day out. Twenty-four/seven, as they say. It’ll stop ’em, don’t worry.”
She looked at the thing. “Chantments burn out, don’t they?”
“We use this one sparingly.”
“What about my brother? He’s caught in dreamland.”
“Alchemites can’t hurt him there. Sorry—is something funny?”
I didn’t expect to like you, Juanita thought. “I thought you’d be more like…”
“It’s okay, you can say her name. More like Sahara? Like her how?”
“Scheming, pretending to be some kind of martyr.”
Astrid wrapped her fingers around the lemon, tugging, but seemed unable to budge it. “Till the other day, I’d hoped the craziness—some of it, anyway—might be an act.”
People burning, Sahara cowering behind. “It’s no act.”
“No.”
“The Wendover shrinks throw around the word narcissist. Sometimes—malignant narcissist.”
Astrid fingered the lemon. “I lie awake, wondering when she lost her mind. If there was any point where I could’ve cured her. Mark says it started before the vitagua, years ago.…”
“If anyone would know, it’s Mark Clumber.”
“He cheated on her; I told myself he was making excuses.”
“Both things could be true,” Juanita said.
“What does it say about me that I never noticed?”
“That you cared for her. That you didn’t judge?”
Astrid’s eyes dulled; her attention was suddenly far away. “Alchemites are attacking Wendover.”
“Didn’t I ask you to can the prophecies?”
“It’s no prophecy,” Astrid said. “We’re watching the base.”
The judge. “How do I get back?”
Astrid gestured at the arch of thorns. “Across the plaza, into the glow. Think about where you need to be.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime, gorgeous.” The lemon broke free, falling into Astrid’s hand. She dropped it immediately, body jerking as if it weighed a thousand pounds.
Juanita sprinted through the gate, cutting through the throng in the plaza, running to the weird light. No hesitation this time; she came out in the courthouse foyer. The smell of scorched upholstery, stronger after the clean Mediterranean air, assailed her.
She’d traveled around the world in less than a second.
Tense voices echoed in the corridor.
“Knax doesn’t give a damn about her followers.” It was Skagway. “She let them burn.”
Roche, replying: “She knows right from wrong, so what?”
Keeping an ear tuned to the conversation, Juanita peered out at the airfield. A jet touched down, leaving rippling waves of heat in its wake. Business as usual.
“Arthur, the attorney general promised me you’d follow the letter of the law on this.”
“What can I do, George? The president’s assurances to the public have been useless. We look like idiots.”
“Assassinating Knax won’t restore your credibility.”
Juanita tensed. Two milky-blue scorpions, each the size of a truck, were emerging from the pilot’s lounge.
“I tried it your way and failed,” Roche said. “I lost Will Forest, the defendants, I may have to work with Gilead Landon—”
“How you must miss the murderous pyromaniac.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. I need to start posting some wins.”
“This isn’t soccer, General, and you’re not committing homicide—”
The scorpions were drawing gunfire. Bolting the door, Juanita sprinted toward Roche and Skagway.
“—I may have no choice but to work with the Fyremen—” Roche stopped in midsentence. “What do you want, Corazón?”
“Alchemites are attacking the base, sir.”
“A rescue attempt? They’re getting desperate. Here.” Roche slapped a jade pendant—a carved fish—into the judge’s palm and drew his sidearm. Juanita saw a small black tassel dangling from its trigger guard.
“Why don’t you give that one to Corazón?”
Roche flicked the judge an irritated glance.
“We don’t want our prisoner getting accidentally shot.”
“It’s legal to shoot her if she’s trying to escape,” Roche said.
“She can’t run, remember?” Skagway said.
Was that why Astrid put the bottle cap in her, Juanita wondered, to keep Sahara from getting shot escaping custody?
“Fine.” Roche slapped the gun with the tassel into Juanita’s hand and took out a laminated baseball card.
“I have a weapon,” Juanita said.
“This one’s a chantment,” Roche said.
“What’s it do?”
Roche flicked the tassel with a finger. “Trick shots. Call yourself Annie Oakley. You won’t miss.”
“Until I pass out from exhaustion?”
“Doesn’t take that much juice—you already know how to shoot. You’ll run out of bullets first.”
“Unless they kill us.”
“Pah,” Roche said. “Every time they try this, we end up with new prisoners and more of their toys.”
And a bunch of MIAs to show for it, Juanita thought.
They edged toward the cells as concussions shivered the walls. The doors banged open, but what came through wasn’t mutant scorpions: it was Heaven and a pilot.
“Help!” Heaven’s leg was bloodied; she was leaning on the airman, limping.
Roche made a disgusted noise, buying it, and lowered the baseball card.
“Annie Oakley, huh?” Juanita raised the pistol. Angles and trajectories filled her mind. She spotted a hoop of plastic in Heaven’s hand, a mandala pendant that might be a chantment.
She squeezed off a shot, watching as the bullet seemed to bounce in slow motion off a light fixture, shattering the pendant before passing harmlessly through Heaven’s sleeve. There was a spurt of blue.
Gotta admit it, she thought, that was cool.
Heaven’s partner in crime dropped the pretense of supporting her weight, throwing out an arm. A hailstone the size of a bowling ball shot toward them.
Juanita turned, shielding the judge, but the ice ball stopped short. Roche had the baseball card up again.
“Arthur!” Skagway had reached the door to the cells. Roche tossed him the keycard, deflecting another hailstone. Juanita fired at a third, shattering it into snow.
Skagway got the door open, wrenching his sports chair through. They followed him, locking the door again.
Sahara was out of her cell, patting down a semiconscious Gladys, who lay on the floor, thrashing weakly, her face blue-white, apparently suffocating. Sahara was murmuring quietly.
“She’s vamping her,” Roche said.
Juanita fired, sending the bullet just past Sahara’s cheek, close enough to burn. Sahara shrieked.
Juanita closed the distance between them, catching her by the throat and squeezing. “She dies, you die.”
Gladys whooped, drawing in air.
“Let me guess—you thought this’d be your big escape?”
“You are going to pay and pay for this,” Sahara rasped.
“Where’s the chantment, Sahara?”
Before she could answer, hailstones pounded the door out of its frame. Heaven darted into the corridor, arms extended, hands streaked with vitagua. She was making straight for the judge.
Before Juanita could shout a warning, a golden boxing glove appeared out of nowhere, pasting Heaven …
… bopped on the nose, just as Lethewood promised …
Heaven fell, shrieking: “Letter go, letter go, nownownow!” She sounded like one of the starlings.
By the doorway, the pilot was firing hai
lstones at them … and Roche was looking tired.
Move, Juanita thought. She shoved Sahara into a cell, caught Heaven by the arm and pulled her in too. That gate of thorns had flowered on the wall. What would Astrid Lethewood think if she just dragged them through, made Sahara her problem?
“Gladys,” Juanita bellowed. “Get up.”
Fingers clamped around Juanita’s ankle. Her throat, where the sea-glass pendant hung, began to throb.
She looked down, horrified. Heaven was clutching Juanita’s leg with her blue-streaked hand.
Contaminated, she contaminated me, Sahara’s laughing …
A sound like a thunderclap. Heaven passed out, the Alchemite pilot fell, and the judge lurched in his chair, huffing and red faced. Jade dust—the remains of the pendant Roche had given him—trickled through his fingers.
Roche snatched up a radio. “Where’s my tac squad?” He was cradling his arm, as if it hurt.
A tinny voice. “Sorry, sir. Scorpions have us tied up. What’s your six?”
“Prisoner’s secure, that’s what matters.” He was shivering. “See, George? You really think your marshals can hold off the Alchemites?”
The judge was panting—he looked at least seventy. “Corazón. The little cook’s an Alchemite?”
Juanita nodded.
“What tipped you off?”
“I—”
He must have seen something of the truth in her face. He tried to wheel away, forgetting he was braked— He never forgets he’s braked, Juanita thought. Then he was gone.
“Let him go,” Roche said.
She hadn’t realized she was following. “He needs to eat something.”
“You, on the floor—go after His Honor.” Gladys struggled to her feet. “Make sure he’s okay, then report to the infirmary.”
“Yes, sir.” Gladys tottered away after the judge.
“He guess right?” Roche asked. “You one of them?”
Juanita stepped out of the cell, locking Sahara in. “I slipped her three chantments. One hides the other two.”
“You don’t seem like the true-believer type.”
“They got to my family. I’m sorry.”
Roche sat, cradling his arm. “They were bound to threaten someone.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Just a scratch.” He opened his fist. There was a scrape there, tinged with blue.
Juanita showed him the contamination on her ankle.
They sat, glum and silent. Finally Juanita indicated the unconscious Sahara: “She’d say it makes us blessed.”
“Landon would say it makes us firewood.” Roche sighed. “I ought to arrest you.”
She unclipped her key ring and weapon, holding them out. “Can I pick my own cell, sir?”
“Don’t be a drama queen. Confine yourself to quarters and wrap your head around doing some media interviews. You’re the only PR card I’ve got left; I’m not telling the nation you’re an Alchemite stooge.” With that, Roche heaved himself to his feet, heading for Security.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PATIENCE SLEPT ABOUT AS gently as a prizefighter: she rolled and murmured, lashed out with her legs, giggled. She’d fall into a silence and Ev would doze, only to jolt back to alertness when she shape-shifted or began to snore. Since they’d begun their affair, he had been going without sleep.
It had to be exhausting, he’d realized, feeding energy into the shape-shifting when she couldn’t control it.
If Teoquan really could make Patience a goddess—whatever that might mean in this already altered world—would that help her? What had he offered her … power over life and death?
Hot air, Ev decided. Teo was, fundamentally, a loudmouth. I was jealous of him, built him up into some big threat.
A low chuckle against his chest and Patience shivered, shape-shifting again. For one wistful moment, he remembered that Albert had slept like a corpse.
He kissed the top of her head. She relaxed against him with a contented huff, sliding deeper into sleep, he hoped. Now, if only he could get drowsy himself, he might be able to follow.
Closing his eyes, he reached out, fingering the wooden coin Astrid had sent from Indigo Springs. Dogtags, they’d been dubbed, and as he toyed with the thing, it filled him in on bits of news from the real world and from the town itself. Closing his eyes, he let the image of a map form in his imagination, bringing up the routes of the two contamination pipelines—the one digging eastward from Oregon toward Colorado, the carefully reinforced sea pipe stitching northward under the coastal islands. With a thought he pulled back, expanding the view so he could see the whole of the world. Tiny sites of vitagua contamination dotted all the continents. Astrid’s volunteers had moved gallons of the liquid magic out of North America, secreting it in glaciers, spilling it into lakes and watersheds, misting the corners of the world’s inaccessible wild places.
Blue blotches marked the cities where the strike team had clashed with Alchemites: St. Louis, Saskatoon, Manchester, Tijuana, Manila, Atlanta. Centered within the map, Ev’s hometown and the forest around it were a bright, roughly circular patch of cobalt.
Drops in a very large bucket, Ev thought. Even with the pipelines, they weren’t moving fast enough.
A soft cough brought his eyes open, and he saw a vitagua-contaminated mouse staggering toward them across the floor of the earth lodge.
“Hello?” Ev whispered. The mouse trembled, tongue hanging. A few of the Roused were almost completely transformed, but they didn’t have this wide-eyed, feral look.
Was it a contaminated animal? How had it gotten here?
A glob of vitagua flowed over the mouse, growing to human size and taking a familiar shape.
Astrid. Ev pulled the blanket over himself and Patience. By now the mouse had been engulfed, and the Astrid form was as big as a ten-year-old. Gray fur sprouted from her waistline and her collarbones, forming a Tarzan-esque fur bikini.
She—it—coughed, twice. “Pop?”
“That is creepy, kid,” Patience said, waking.
“I didn’t know you’d be asleep; it’s nearly noon.”
“No day or night here, remember?” Ev said.
Skin grew over the vitagua shape, and suddenly—to look at, at least—it was his daughter. She took in the sight of them in bed, added it up, did the sum again, and let out one of those shocky titters of hers. “I didn’t mean to barge.”
Patience yawned. “What’s up?”
“Ma—Pop called. Said it was an emergency?”
“What? No.”
“Your sense of time gone screwy again?” Patience asked. “Maybe you’re going to call, Ev.”
Which meant there would be an emergency. Great.
“No,” Astrid said. “I’m not confused about the time.”
“What about the sea-glass?”
“Poisoning hasn’t affected my sense of time.”
Ev said, “Hell, kid, you aren’t cured yet?”
“I figured out how, but—”
“But you’re scared?” Ev asked.
She raised her hands. “It’s okay, I know it doesn’t kill me. Not by poison, the grumbles say. But—yeah, I’m afraid.”
Not by poison. “Astrid—do you know what does kill you?”
She shook her head. “It’s confusing, Pop.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t…” A frown—the frown, the one that meant the voices were throwing half truths at her.
“Ev’s right, sweetie. Unpoison yourself, please.”
“Soon, Patience.”
“Today,” Ev insisted.
“Okay. But if you didn’t call me, who did?”
“I called.” The words came from outside: Teoquan.
“Be right there.” She headed to the exit. “Pop, Patience, sorry about … you know. Interrupting.”
Ev leapt up, then was pulling on a robe and heading after her.
Teoquan had been remarkably little trouble since Ev and Eliza b
egan their shell game with the rescued Roused. As the pipeline drained the vitagua glaciers into the real and the population of moderates grew, the Pucker Hill letrico mill had been expanded. Food-spinners set up a factory, turning the energy into food, shelters, supplies. Astrid’s science crew sent a surveyor to figure out glacier volumes and calculate the land mass beneath them. Eliza had people counting the frozen Roused.
The elders’ village was thriving, too. A spring of uncontaminated drinking water had been found flowing out of a fissure in the cliff at the edge of the village. The soil there was richer than the gritty sand that covered most of the unreal. The trees excavated from the snow were waking from dormancy.
Eliza kept grinding the ice into blue snow, and teams of Roused were making bricks of it, building up towers to stack the displaced vitagua where it couldn’t trap anyone else.
Peace had reigned, morale was high, and Teo had kept his head down.
“Cute trick with the fake body,” he was saying as Ev caught up. “What happens to my little cousin?”
“Sorry?”
“The mouse?”
“It dies after a couple days,” Astrid said.
“Figures.”
“I only take animals who are on their last legs.”
“I’m supposed to say—what? That’s sweet?”
“It was Pop’s voice I heard calling me.”
“I’m a gifted mimic.”
“Why didn’t you call me yourself?” Astrid asked.
“Who am I to you? Nobody.”
“I’d have come.”
“Maybe.” Teo was surveying Pucker Hill, the earth lodge and food-spinners, the wind farm. Ev felt a surge of pride, as if he’d created the settlement himself.
“What’s the emergency?” Astrid demanded.
He knows, Ev thought, and Teo shot him a piercing glance, as if he’d spoken the thought aloud.
“The emergency is I want that Fyreman.”
The vitagua Astrid tilted her head. “For what?”
“You’re getting above yourself, missy—that’s unreal business, none of yours.”
“You want someone to punish.”
“That your opinion, or your profiler boyfriend’s?”
“I’m sorry, Teoquan,” she said. “Lucius died.”
Teo let out a long growl. When he spoke, his voice was an inhuman chatter of stones. “You ignore me at your peril.”
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