“I,” Sloane said, “am not fragile.”
“I don’t intend to insult you,” Nero said. “But you suffered a unique trauma at the hands of your Dark One, and—”
“Shut up.” It wasn’t Sloane who interrupted him this time, but Esther. She wiped her cheeks dry and tugged at the neck of her stiff blouse to draw attention to her siphon. “Or I will set you on fucking fire.”
Nero showed his palms.
“Come on,” Esther said to Sloane. “We have to tell Matt. Unless you have other lies to confess to?”
Sloane tried her best to look dignified as she hobbled toward the door, following Esther. When she reached the threshold, Nero spoke again.
“Don’t forget,” he said, and his voice was cold enough to make the back of her neck prickle. “All of you still need me to get home. And you need to kill the Resurrectionist if you want a home to go back to.”
Sloane didn’t turn; she just kept walking, unevenly, toward the elevator.
“I have returned with a gift,” Matt announced from the doorway of Sloane’s room. They had started calling it “the White Room,” for obvious reasons. Matt’s was “the Cabin,” and Esther’s was “the Church.”
Sloane was sitting with her back against the headboard. Esther, wearing sweatpants, was on the floor, two fingers stuck in a jar of peanut butter. They had all taken to eating peanut butter—in sandwiches, on apples, spread over crackers—because the brand, Nutty Buddy, was the same on Earth and Genetrix, and so was the flavor. One of the only perfect matches they had found.
Matt held up a bottle of dark liquor. “Bourbon,” he said. “Courtesy of Cyrielle.”
Esther applauded.
“Was she apologizing for not telling us we’re fucked?” Sloane said from the bed.
“She didn’t know,” Matt said. “She’s only been working for Aelia for a year.”
Sloane snorted.
“Do not scorn the one who got us bourbon,” Matt said. “Just because you just got affirmed in Trusting No One.”
“My worldview is the correct worldview,” Sloane said, “and you expect me not to gloat?”
Matt laughed, and for a moment they were what they had been before. He unscrewed the cap of the bourbon and took a swig. As he swallowed, he passed the bottle to Esther. “I don’t agree that we’re fucked, though,” Matt said.
“We’re the fifth in line to fight the Resurrectionist,” Esther said. “We’re the only ones who don’t really know how to use magic. One of us has already gotten kidnapped.” She sat up and offered the bottle of bourbon to Sloane, who took it and sipped.
The bourbon tasted like vanilla and peanuts. Sloane winced and passed it back to Matt.
“We’re fucked,” Esther finished.
“That’s the thing, though.” Matt sat on the floor next to Esther, took a swig from the bottle, and passed it to Esther. “I think there’s something to it, the whole history-repeating-itself thing.”
Sloane raised an eyebrow.
“If history wants to repeat, that’s fine with me,” Matt said. “We won last time, remember?”
“Man’s got a point,” Esther said, pointing the bottle at him.
“I don’t know,” Sloane said. “I don’t think we should fight at all.”
“And just let the Resurrectionist destroy both of our universes?” Matt said.
“Nero lying about this means everything could be a lie. The universes might not be connected. The Resurrectionist might not be our enemy. The—”
“Not our enemy?” Matt was incredulous. “He kidnapped you. He’s killed God knows how many people. He was controlling the Drain!”
“I know.” Sloane leaned her forehead against her hand. “I know that, okay? I’m just saying—”
“We verified the connection between universes,” Esther said, giving Sloane the bottle. “You found that article.”
“One article doesn’t prove it definitively,” Sloane said. “And now we know Nero’s a liar.”
“And we know the Resurrectionist is a murderer,” Matt said.
“I’m not saying we should go grab a beer with him or anything, just that we should be more thorough about confirming what Nero says!” She held the bottle out to him.
“Yeah. Okay.” Matt grabbed it and drank.
A few hours later, the bourbon was almost gone, and Esther was splayed across the foot of the bed, fast asleep. Sloane had the bottle cradled in her lap, and Matt was on the floor, leaning against the wall. They had been quiet for a long time, but neither of them had left. Sloane didn’t want to. She wanted to stay inside the quiet company for as long as she could.
“This sucks,” Matt said, out of nowhere.
Sloane nodded.
“I don’t know how to not be with you,” he said. “Can’t date anyone normal at home. Can’t stop seeing you altogether.”
“I mean, you could,” Sloane said.
He shook his head. “No. You and me and Esther and Ines . . . we’re bound for life. It’s like a marriage. Better or worse. Sickness and health . . .”
Sloane gripped the bourbon bottle tightly.
“You ever think we should just stay here?” Matt said. “Nobody knows we’re Chosen here. Could go on a real date. Nobody staring. Nobody asking for an autograph.”
“You wouldn’t be able to get the best table just by winking,” Sloane pointed out.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “And probably they’d racially profile me. Win some, lose some.”
Sloane stifled a laugh. It wasn’t actually funny—none of this was—but the bourbon had made mirth bubble up inside her like carbonation, and everything seemed soft at the edges. She cleared her throat, trying to bring it all back into focus. “You’ll figure out how to do this,” she said. “We both will. We’ll figure out how to be friends.”
Matt sniffed. A tear ran down his cheek, and he wiped it away. “I know.”
“I’m not okay,” she said. “I know I seem like I am. I’m good as long as I keep moving, but when we’re home—when I stop—” She made an explosion sound. “Pop goes the Sloanie.”
“I guess that shouldn’t be reassuring,” he said. “But it is.”
Sloane put the bottle on the nightstand and closed her eyes.
29
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for Matt to demand further proof of the connection between universes or for Aelia to agree to give it to him. She had to have heard about Sloane and Esther breaking into Nero’s office, and she likely wanted to appease them—at least, that was Sloane’s theory. So it was only two days later that Aelia, Cyrielle, Sloane, Matt, and Esther stood on the edge of the river, looking out over the water.
Two years after the fall of the Dark One, the five Chosen Ones had presided over the dyeing of the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s Day. Esther had put on a green dress covered in sequins and a green wig to match it; she had looked like the queen of a parade. They had stood on the deck of a boat, the orange powder dye spraying behind them, turning the murky water electric, while a massive crowd cheered.
“There are places where the boundaries of our universes appear to be more permeable,” Aelia said now. “We have been able to detect where a few of those places are. Water appears to be a commonality among them. This is one of them.”
Sloane thought of the ballistic missile loosed from the USS Tenebris rocketing toward the deepest part of the ocean.
And of diving for the Needle, the flippers on her feet propelling her deeper than she ought to have gone.
And of the blast that had thrown her into the water when the Dark One died, and the eerie glow of his cheek as he turned away from her.
Water, she thought. Sure.
“We do not have the power necessary to break through the barrier between our universes now,” Aelia said. “Nothing will be able to pass through it. But our former Chosen One taught us that magic can be . . . observed. We can do a working to help one of you perceive the magical connections that exist. However, one of you must swim down
to where the barrier is thinnest to witness what we have seen of the connections between universes. Which one of you is the strongest swimmer?”
Sloane felt everyone’s eyes on her. She was, after all, the first one to have emerged from this same river and the one who had gotten her scuba-diving certification when training to retrieve the Needle. And the one who had spent summers at the community pool with Cameron, the two of them challenging each other to hold their breath longer, and longer, and longer . . .
“Me,” Sloane said.
Aelia’s mouth pinched like she was sucking on hard candy, but she nodded. Today she wore three clashing black-and-white patterns: striped billowing slacks; a houndstooth jacket with a long line of tiny buttons; a checkerboard cape with a high collar. She reminded Sloane of a circus performer.
“We can do a working on you so that you can breathe underwater for a short time,” Aelia said. “If that’s all right with you.”
“Yeah,” Sloane said. She bent over to untie her shoe. Her other leg was still wrapped in a siphon. “Sure.”
As Aelia cast a working to keep Sloane warm in the cold water, Cyrielle produced a large handkerchief from one of her sleeves, shaking it out like a magician performing a trick. She placed it over Sloane’s nose and mouth and tied it at the back of her head. Then Aelia brought all her fingertips together and let out a trill from her tooth implant, a note higher than she could have sung on her own. Sloane winced at the sound, but the kerchief inflated around her face like a balloon—her air supply.
Sloane shed her outer layer. Wearing just a shirt and her underwear, she walked to the edge of the river. There were goose bumps all over her legs. She stared into the dim water and saw no reflection.
“And now the working that will help you see the connections,” Aelia said, her hand clasping Sloane’s shoulder. Sloane felt the cold of the siphon’s plates through the fabric of her shirt. Cyrielle clasped her other shoulder. The note from Aelia’s implant was so low Sloane could hardly hear sound in it, only felt its vibration against the back of her neck. Cyrielle’s joined in at a higher, dissonant pitch. Then both women’s hands fell away.
Sloane turned around and saw—light. Strings of light enfolding Cyrielle, Matt, Esther, Aelia. Extending from their feet and into the ground, penetrating the cracks in the concrete sidewalk. Slants of light like the sun’s rays passed over the buildings behind them. Light shone through the windows of the high-rises and wrapped around them like string around a yo-yo. The city was bright with magic, swollen with it.
“Go,” Aelia said, and the light came out of her mouth like a waterfall. “Or you’ll run out of air.”
Sloane bent her knees and dove.
From beneath, the water was murky as a lake, but light from the world above followed her down. She kicked like a bullfrog, wishing she had her flippers. She could breathe, but the pressure against her ears and sinuses was oppressive.
A rope of magic stretched down from the surface of the water. She hadn’t seen it above the river, but here it was, as thick as her arm. Sloane swam alongside it, each kick forcing her farther and farther down.
She had never felt so profoundly alone in her life—not just isolated or by herself, but truly alone, the only person in darkness that went on forever, with only the rope as company.
Even if she had not been able to see the rope, though, she would have known that something was wrong about this place. She felt the prickle of it in her fingers. The Chicago River was only twenty or so feet deep at its deepest, and she had already swum farther than that. Wherever she was now was not the bottom of the river in Genetrix.
And then she saw it: a flicker of light up ahead, at the end of the rope. A glint of gold. She kicked harder, swimming toward it, following the rope like a child chasing the end of a rainbow. Her head was in a vise of magic; tingles raced up her arms and down her legs. She felt like the river water was closing in on her, forming a black tunnel. The plants growing on the floor of the river brushed her bare knees.
The glint was a thread of silver—no, just something that looked like silver. The Needle.
Startled by the sight of it, she stopped swimming and drew herself upright. Her head hit something hard and grainy—a chunk of concrete. She put her palm against it and turned so it was beneath her. Just beyond the concrete was a twisted piece of metal. It took shape when she came closer—it was huge, broader across than her wingspan, and disappearing into the metal that surrounded it.
It was the top of a P.
It was one of the overlarge letters that had been on Trump Tower before the destructive magic that ended the Dark One’s life had leveled the building. She had dived among this rubble that had sunk to the bottom of the river, searching for any sign of the Dark One’s body. And now it was above her. Below her.
Sloane looked down—up—at the plants that were, impossibly, growing toward the rubble. There was debris hidden among the stems: soda cans, glass bottles, a warped hubcap, a fragment of metal with the Abraxas logo on it. That was Genetrix.
And below—above—her, the remnants of the tower they had destroyed while killing the Dark One.
Between them, afloat but somehow immovable, was the Needle.
As ever, Sloane was drawn by its magnetism, the tingling cold that washed over her body at the thought of it. She felt like she could have just swum over and pinched it between her fingers. It wanted her. She knew it. And she wanted it too. But when she reached for it, her hand missed it, like she had misjudged the distance. When she tried again, the same thing happened, her fingers glancing off to the right.
Odd.
She was about to try a third time when she saw something else. It was a pale, quick thing, like a fish without the glimmer of scales. As it turned, it took the shape of a man: hair floating away from his head, softened by the water; clothes dark; shoes with hard leather soles. Terror clutched at her chest.
The Dark One.
It was a memory. A hallucination. It had to be. She was just running out of air and it was messing with her mind. She needed to go back.
Instead, she swam forward, thrashing through the water with as much energy as she could muster, froglike, hands outstretched. She saw the gnarl of scars on the back of her right hand, where the Needle had been, and kicked harder, trying to catch the shoe. She saw the shadow ahead of her, and the glow of magic that surrounded it. Sloane screamed into the water, which tasted like weeds and mildew.
The shadow was shrinking, and the rubble had gone away, as had the Needle and the river plants. She swam harder, legs and arms burning—
And broke through the surface of the river, Esther’s and Matt’s faces right above her.
“I think—” She coughed, reaching for the hands they extended to her. She yanked the cloth down from her face, spat up some water, and began again. “I think the Dark One—our Dark One—is still alive.”
“He can’t be.” Esther shook her head.
They were still on the riverbank. Aelia had dried Sloane off with a working, and she was now pulling her pants back on, her arms and legs trembling from exertion.
“We never found a body,” Sloane said.
“You dove in the river,” Esther said. “You found his button, part of his jacket—there was so much rubble—”
“We wanted him to be dead, so we convinced ourselves he was!” Sloane said.
“Then why didn’t he come back to finish us off? It’s not like we were so scary he had to run to another dimension to get away from us!” Esther’s gestures were wide and frantic; she almost struck Matt in the face before he stepped away from her.
Neither he nor Aelia had spoken yet; they seemed content to watch as Sloane and Esther argued.
“I don’t know,” Sloane said. “Maybe whatever he was doing on Earth, he’d finished. Maybe he got tired of playing with us and wanted to find some new toys. I’m not a fucked-up supervillain; I don’t know the logic!”
“But you know the logic of trippy underwater hallucination
s?” Esther said. “You see him swimming away, and suddenly you’re convinced he’s alive, and we should just trust you on that?”
“When has my gut ever failed us when it comes to the Dark One?” Sloane demanded. “I said he would fall for our trap, and he did. I said I would be good bait, and I was. I said to let Albie come and fight with us, and he turned out to be the reason we won. And I was the only one who was so convinced the Dark One might not be dead that I fucking scuba-dived in the Chicago River—a deeply unpleasant experience, might I add—and now, yeah, I expect you to believe that my gut isn’t wrong on this one! Is that really so insane?”
Esther stared at Sloane, her eyes full of tears. Sloane thought she might always remember Esther this way, her arms slack at her sides, her eyes shining, the moon glowing behind her, no matter what happened to them after this.
“Sloane,” Matt said, and Sloane tensed in anticipation, though she wasn’t sure why.
“Your gut never led us astray—before,” Matt said. “But now it tells you all kinds of things. That you’re still a captive of the Dark One in the middle of the night when you’re at home in our bed. That you could trust that Mox guy, who probably sold you out to the Resurrectionist. That you needed to go visit Genetrix’s Bert—”
“Fuck you,” Sloane said in a low voice. “Don’t you dare use a fucking night terror against me like that. You’re just pissed because my gut told me to dump you, because of course there must be something wrong with my head if I don’t want to marry the goddamn saintly Chosen—”
“God, Sloane, this is the fucking problem with you, you don’t know how to fight without drawing blood, and you never have!”
“Both of you, stop,” Esther said, and she choked back a sob. “I can’t take it. I need to get home. Okay? I need to. My mom is dying. So why don’t you stop bickering like a bunch of children and tell me the fastest way to do that?”
Matt and Sloane stared at each other. His jaw shifted like he was working on a particularly tough bite of meat. Sloane just felt tired. She looked out over the river. She no longer remembered why she was so convinced that the Dark One was still alive, that he had swum through the barrier between universes instead of dying, only that she was . . . and no one, not even Esther, believed her.
Chosen Ones Page 27
