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I called on Oversight, bringing the aetheric filter in front of my eyes, and saw the ghostly rivers of power that some humans still called ley lines.
Every one of these spots sat on a nexus, a power center. Oracles were situated on such spots; Sedona, for the Earth Oracle; Seacasket, for the Fire Oracle. Only the Weather Oracle had no fixed location that anyone could identify.
Pearl had established herself—or some aspect of herself—on the supernatural equivalent of a power grid, at the most powerful spots not being watched over by Dji
And all of the locations—all of them—now looked identical. The precisely measured open ground, freed of vegetation. The same glowing dome. Each location was bordered by geography that made it difficult to approach.
She had built herself a network, a support system, and a web of energy.
“Ley lines,” I told Luis. He nodded. “You see what she’s doing?”
“Building herself a power grid? Yeah, I see it. The question is, what’s inside the domes? And which one is she in, physically?”
“I’m not sure she’s in any of them,” I said. “Or, more accurately, I’m not sure she’s not in all of them. I think the dome is Pearl. But she is able to exist simultaneously, in different locations.”
Luis grunted. “Wouldn’t that divide her power?”
“I don’t know,” I said. With the ley lines, it was possible that she could draw from one location to another, move her consciousness seamlessly between the four sites without much, if any, delay. “How many other nexus points are open?”
“In this country? Probably about ten. You think she’ll go after those, too?”
The FBI agent ru
Pearl was spreading her influence. It was an infection, a kind of disease traveling along the invisible lines of power that crisscrossed the planet’s surface, and also served as conduits directly through its core. These installations could spring up like mushrooms, without warning.
“I think,” I said quietly, “that if she can get enough power, she will spread to every nexus point in the world. Think of these as blisters, holding in infection.” I tapped the screen, and the white dome. “When they break . . .”
Silence. They all looked at me. Luis looked faintly sick. “How much trouble are we in, exactly?”
Enough that I was being forced, again, to consider Ashan’s orders. Destroy them all. She is powering herself through the humans. Cut out the humans, you cut her co
Her war was against the Dji
I don’t want to do this, some part of me whispered. Indeed, I did not. I dreaded it with all my soul. To destroy humanity, I would have to feel their pain, their deaths, their lives passing through me, being removed from the world and the living memory of the Mother. I would have to unmake Luis Rocha. Isabel. Even the fragile memorials of the dead, like Ma
I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to take that step, not even looking at this appalling thing in front of me, and understanding how little time was left to us.
There’s still time. There must be a way to stop her.
I had to try. For the sake of those I loved, for the sake of those I didn’t, like Agent Sanders and his unseen family, I had to not only try, but succeed.
“We need all the Wardens you can find,” I said. “All of them. We need to attack all of these at the same time, force her to fight multiple fronts. You understand?” I turned to Agent Sanders. “There will be humans to fight, or to rescue. Can we count on you to do what is needed?”
“You want teams at each of these locations.”
“Are you saying they’re not already there, feeding you information?”
He was silent, watching me, and finally gave a single nod. “All right,” he said. “When?”
“Let me check on Wardens,” Luis said, and slapped his pockets, looking harassed. “Cell phone?”
Agent Klein stepped up and handed it over to him. Luis flipped it open and began making calls. I left him to it, staring at the shimmering, featureless domes on the screen.
Sister, I thought. We were sisters once. So much alike. But she had learned to love killing, and I had learned to embrace the opposite. That was a harshly learned lesson, courtesy of Ashan, probably one he had never intended. But one I valued, nevertheless.
It occurred to me that she expected me to act against her as Ashan wished, destroying humanity to cut her off from her power. Reducing me to the same state that she had once been in.
Driving me mad, because assuredly, with so much death and agony coursing through me, I would destroy myself. I’d become like her.
Obsessed with the end of all things.
I wondered if Ashan had thought of that, too. Of what would happen if I turned toxic, like Pearl. Two of us, rending the world apart.
I could only imagine, old and clever as Ashan was, that he’d already seen that possibility.
That meant that should I execute his orders . . . execute humanity . . . there would be someone standing in the background, waiting to destroy me, as well.
It would be the only safe thing to do.
And suddenly, Rashid’s inexplicable attachment made sense. He was not Ashan’s creature, but he was Ashan’s hireling. Close to me not because he was interested, or concerned, but because he was waiting.
Waiting for what he, and Ashan, knew was inevitable.
My hands—flesh, and metal—clenched into fists. “No,” I murmured. “Not inevitable.”
The FBI agent next to me looked up, frowning. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing is inevitable,” I said. “Not even death.”
I left her wondering, and turned to walk outside of the tent, breathing in the fresh, crisp air. It was mostly untainted by the massive cities around us, although I could still catch the occasional stench of exhaust and oil. I leaned against the rough bark of a tree, breathing deeply, and then crouched down to place both hands flat against the ground. I could sense something here, something like I had felt back on the ridge where I’d buried the child. A presence, though distant and elusive. Her presence.
“Help me,” I whispered. “Help me understand what I should do.” Then I directed it upward, outward, to the greater power beyond the vast one of this world. “Help me save them.”
A cool breeze drifted across my face like a caress, and I turned into it and closed my eyes. This moment felt peaceful, almost worshipful in its intensity. As if I was alone, co
Then I heard a snapping of twigs, and opened my eyes to see Agent Ben Turner shove aside underbrush and step out to face me.
The Warden was not his usual, nondescript self. He’d been in a fight, a hard one; there were bruises forming on his face, and one of his hands looked swollen into uselessness. Broken, perhaps. He was breathing hard. His FBI-issue Windbreaker was ripped—no, shredded—and I saw blood spotting his shirt. Minor wounds, it seemed, but the look in his eyes told me that he did not consider them so.
“You did that,” he said. “You set that bastard on me.”
Rashid. “No one commands Rashid,” I said, which was quite true, albeit misleading in this case. “You drew his attention yourself, by taking the scroll. You knew he wanted it for himself.” I raised my eyebrows. “Do you still have it?”
“What do you think?” he snapped, and held up his swollen hand. “He broke my fingers to get it!”