I start casting spells that night.
I try to start small, keep them controlled, but I can’t help myself—I’m so giddy about the idea of using real magic, about preparing myself for a showdown, that I end up completely exhausted, burning myself out on three meager charms I could have rattled off in my sleep back in the day.
I almost take a swing at Nathan the next morning as he wakes me up for work, and it’s a struggle to keep it together long enough for the kids at the park to charge me with belief. Even with their help, I feel like I’m sleepwalking through most of the day. That evening, I sit down in my room and try again. This time, I promise myself, it’ll just be one spell. I gather mystic reagents around myself and get ready to start. That’s one thing I love about the modern world, by the way: It’s so easy to find spell components. Back in the day, I had to send my followers to scour the four corners of the earth, hoping they would find the strange metals and plants I needed. Weeks, months, and sometimes even years would pass before they would return with the supplies I needed. Now I just order everything I need online, in bulk, with free two-day shipping. The Internet’s a hell of a thing.
The enchantment comes together like a warm quilt, arcane fibers weaving through the air above me before condensing and settling around my body. I feel a pleasant shudder as the net of energy binds to my soul, and then say the single word that will return it to me when I need it: “Mangalitsa.” That done, I lie back down on the floor, drained.
The next time I say it aloud, the weave will activate and I’ll have a split second to pick a nearby location for forty gallons of water to appear. Combined with last night’s efforts, this is the start of what I hope will be an impressive selection of prepared spells. It’s my solution to the problem of being so weak—if I were to start a fight now, all I’d be able to do on the fly is cast one or two pathetic cantrips before running out of juice. Now, if everything goes well, I’ll be able to recall dozens of useful charms and enchantments. Each will fade in exactly one month’s time, so depending on how long it is before I’m ready to act, I may have to start redoing these, but I don’t mind—casting spells is wonderfully cathartic and reminds me of the old days.
Groaning, I push myself back to a sitting position and stand. I walk over to my desk and fish around in the top drawer for a pen, then turn to the piece of notebook paper sitting on top. Below the first three entries, I add Mangalitsa—creates water. I’ve decided to use breeds of pigs for each of the trigger words, as they’re both something with which I’m familiar and unlikely to say in a casual conversation. I’ve had some rather embarrassing moments over the years involving forgotten spell triggers and friendly get-togethers.
I look over the list and read the words back to myself, trying to commit them to memory, then move for the door, intent on raiding the fridge for some ice cream. My hand is almost on the knob when I feel something scraping through my brain, followed by a loud Bang! from the next room. I wrench the door open and dart into the hall, shaking my head to stave off a sudden wave of dizziness. I spring past the bathroom and open the door to Nathan’s room. An expanding cloud of thin white smoke fills the air within, and little chips of plaster and drywall are still raining down. In the center of the room, Nathan’s lying on his back, coated in white powder, looking shocked. A dark circle surrounded by a spiderweb of branching cracks has been burned into the ceiling.
“What’s going on?” I shout. “Are you okay?”
“It worked,” he says in a hoarse whisper. He coughs and brushes some of the larger pieces of the ceiling off his shirt.
“What worked?” I say, moving over to him. “Can you stand?”
“I think so,” he says, reaching out an arm. I grab his hand and pull him up. “Thanks,” he says, shaking his head. Dust rains down as he does.
I pick a large paint chip out of his hair. “So…?” I say.
“It worked, Sara!” he says, seeming in awe of himself. “I tried to cast something and it worked! I’m actually casting spells. I’m a freaking wizard.”
I laugh and give his hair another brush. “Actually, you’re more of a cleric,” I say, correcting him, “because if you want to get technical, I cast that through you.”
“Killjoy,” he says, smirking.
“Hey, it was still more than I could manage right now. I’m dead tired—just got done casting a spell of my own.”
“Wait, how does that work?” he asks, shaking out his shirt. “If it’s all you, then—”
“Magic is just a very special kind of belief, Nathan,” I say, shoving some plaster off his bed and sitting down. “It’s usually the playground of gods, but I’ve heard of some mortals who got in on the act through sheer dedication. When you cast that spell, you called on me to help you do it, but there was a part of you in it as well. Together, clerics and gods can become more than the sum of their parts.”
“I love this job!” he says. “That was just the fire seed we were practicing, too. What else can I do?”
I adore his enthusiasm, which makes it all the more disappointing that I have to dampen it. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be a whole lot for a while,” I say, feeling bad about it. “Remember, I’m really, really weak right now, and probably will be for months. For now, you’ll have to make do with the basics. I’m sorry.”
He waves a hand at me, seeming completely unfazed. “No big deal. I’m just glad I actually cast something. You want to go celebrate? We still need to make up that dinner.”
I smile, realizing he’s happy to just be able to use a little magic, regardless of how potent it may be. “Not tonight, sorry. I’m completely beat. Maybe this weekend?”
“Sure, so long as you don’t have any special events you need to hit at the park,” he says, knowing how hectic my schedule has been lately. “Oh, that reminds me—I finally got paid for that last website.”
“The one for the real estate lady who kept asking you to make it ‘pop’?” I ask. From everything Nathan has said about the field, Web designers must satisfy some of the world’s pickiest clientele. I imagine I’d only last a day or two of listening to people spout vague buzzwords while disparaging my efforts before I start trying to take a broadsword to their faces. I don’t know where he finds the patience.
He sighs. “Don’t remind me. I don’t even know how the last few were any different, but suddenly she was ecstatic about it, so hey—still a win.”
“Congratulations!” I say, getting up and clapping him on the shoulder. “Mastering the mystic arts and pleasing clueless clients. This really does call for a celebration.” He smiles at me. Then I point a finger straight up. “After you fix this, of course,” I say, returning a slightly nastier grin.
He follows my finger to stare at the blackened ceiling, and his smile fades. “I don’t suppose there’s a spell for that?” he asks hopefully.
“How many fat magi do you know?” I ask as I head out.
“What?”
“Magic isn’t meant for the lazy,” I reply, moving back to my room.
I close the door and survey the remnants of my latest arcane ritual, then groan as I realize I’ve forgotten my ice cream. I’m about to turn and walk all the way to the kitchen, berating myself for my absentmindedness, when I purse my lips as a thought strikes me. My last words to Nathan remind me that I do have a minor summoning spell already saved up for something like this.
Shh, don’t judge me. Everyone’s allowed to be a hypocrite. Especially gods.
“Bazna,” I whisper, concentrating on the pint of Cherry Garcia in our freezer.
There’s a subsonic hum as the spell activates, detaching itself from my body and burrowing its way under reality. A fraction of a second later, the air ripples around me and there’s a cacophonous sucking noise, like a giant trying to slurp a milk shake through a subway tunnel. Then it upshifts to a dainty pop! and the ice cream materializes in the air directly in front of me. I hold out my hands and catch it, beaming with glee.
Nathan flings the door open in that moment, obviously wondering what made the racket. He looks me up and down, focuses on the pint in my hands, and gives me an incredulous look. “Really?” he asks.
I give him a guilty smile. “Do as I say, not as I do?” I offer.
He rolls his eyes and is about to return to his own room when I realize something’s amiss. “Nate! Wait!” I say anxiously, calling his attention back.
“What? What’s wrong?” he asks, suddenly serious.
I hold up the ice cream. “Can you bring me a spoon?” I ask, the smile returning.
“Gods,” he groans, stomping off.
He returns with the spoon, of course. I even let him have some.
* * *
The next few days fall into the same pattern—collecting belief at the parks, training at Finemdi, and spell-casting at night. My next spell replaces the one I used to snag the ice cream, and the one after that is actually enough to knock me out for two solid hours when I finish casting it, but it’s also incredibly important to my plans—believe it or not, I’m going to use it to kill Impulse Station. I choose others based on what I see as I explore Finemdi, or when the whim strikes me. The facility is, as always, a convoluted and dreary place. I don’t know how so many gods decide to spend their lives here, though I have to admit I haven’t spent much time on the recreation level. Apparently there are an Olympic-sized swimming pool and a whole track-and-field setup, as well as an Internet café, library, arcade, and beauty salon, so maybe I’m missing out. A large part of me hates the idea of using any more of their amenities than I already have, though—it just feels dirty. The meals, however, are consistently spectacular, and they’ve forced me to admit my urge for rebellion ends somewhere around my stomach.
Eating there also gives me a chance to keep tabs on Samantha, who I never see outside the cafeteria. Even then, it’s from several tables’ distance as she eats in her corner of solitude. For the most part, I sneak glances at her as I continue my scheming with the Hawaiian sisters and do my best to keep away from the other gods at the facility. I figure the fewer people I have direct contact with, the fewer chances there will be for my plans to be discovered. Besides, the three girls are all right. They may be cursed with elemental flightiness, but they’re also friendly, good-natured ladies who share my disgust for those who would control us.
“Here’s the key card for the armory,” Hi‘iaka says in a fluttery whisper, placing a stenciled plastic rectangle on the table. “Poor guard wasn’t paying attention when a quiet zephyr pulled it off his desk and into an air vent.”
“Marvelous, little sister,” Nāmaka says, sweeping it off the table. “And you’re certain they have more of the needles Freya described in there?”
“Of course. You hear so many things when you control the wind,” Hi‘iaka says, pointing up with a finger. Locks of her animated black hair lift to twirl around its tip, spiraling in a slow-motion cyclone. “Just be careful—you need to prick someone with mortal blood for it to work, so use it on a hybrid or some other staffer.”
Nāmaka nods. “I’m certain I can find someone nearby.” She turns to me. “You’ll just need to make sure their defensive wards are down, or else the spell will fail.”
“Trust me, you’ll know when the wards are down,” I say. “That will be your cue to move, and for you to start the fireworks.” I nod at Pele.
Pele’s burning eyes flash. “I can’t wait,” she says. “It’ll be a challenge, this far from the Pacific Rim, but I think I have it in me.”
“Remember, we might not have the luxury of timing,” I say. “So all of you need to be ready for the signals. Be prepared to improvise.” I say this not only because having a date for the attack leaves us open to interception if someone finds out about our plans, but also because these three don’t strike me as ladies who live by a schedule. I’d rather keep their actions based on other events instead of a timetable.
“That’s always the best part!” Hi‘iaka says, hair billowing at her excitement. Nāmaka and Pele nod, seeming just as happy about the idea of winging it. Yes, I’ve definitely pegged these women correctly.
“So this is what you four talk about every day?” Samantha says, suddenly occupying a chair at our table.
“What the—” I squawk. The Hawaiian sisters join me in making other sounds of alarm and confusion. I snap my head away to stare at the table in the far corner. Samantha is still there, slowly eating a salad.
“Calm down,” the Samantha in front of us says, glancing around. She nods at Hi‘iaka. “Whatever you’re doing to the air might not let anyone hear us, but everyone can still see what’s happening.” She pauses. “Well, okay, they won’t see me. But a quartet of goddesses freaking out for no obvious reason will draw more attention than you want.”
All of us halt our frantic movements and lean in, narrowing our eyes at her. We do it at practically the same time, and if I weren’t still trying to convince the startled Valkyrie inside me it’s not time to go into battle mode, I’d be somewhat amused by our synchronicity.
“How are you doing that?” Hi‘iaka asks, voicing the question on all of our minds.
Samantha snorts. “I’m in charge of divine admissions. That includes divine artifacts. I get to learn how all the toys work. This is just a bit of illusion dust, a tweaked helm of invisibility”—she knocks a fist against the side of her head, and her knuckles make a metallic clink about an inch from her temple—“and a lot of boredom.” She sighs. “Maybe some loneliness, too.”
“We really are sorry we had to stop—” Pele begins.
Samantha shakes her head. “Not your fault.” She’s quiet for a few awkward seconds. Then she looks at me with a smile. “Did you tell them?”
“Wasn’t my place,” I reply.
“I love you honorable ones,” she says. She glances at the puzzled faces of the Hawaiian girls and holds up a hand. “Personal stuff. Sara and I compared notes a few days ago, told each other a few secrets. I thought about it a lot, and I’ve decided I’d like to help.”
At this, we all break into big smiles, except for Nāmaka, who seems uncomfortable. “As much as I’d truly appreciate it,” she says, “there’s the little matter of your father.”
At the mention of the world’s creepiest CEO, my smile curdles immediately. Samantha gives Nāmaka an understanding look. “I don’t blame you for being nervous. Which is why this only happens once, right now. I can’t get involved in any plotting, both for my safety and yours. But I wanted to help.”
“You do realize we’re trying to destroy the entire facility, yes?” Nāmaka asks.
Samantha nods. “Without implicating yourselves. Tricky, isn’t it?”
“Very. Look, it’s not that we don’t trust you,” Nāmaka says. “It’s just … you’ve worked for them for years. If you wanted this place gone, why wait? Why turn on them for us?”
Samantha smiles, and I get the impression she’s been expecting this question. “Right now, I see Finemdi as a means to an end”—she gives me a meaningful look—“so despite its obvious problems, I haven’t really entertained thoughts of open rebellion. If you manage to take this place down, I’m just going to move to another facility and try to, um, finish my work. Who knows? Maybe I’ll have more luck there. But the real reason I want to help is because I’d like to make it out of whatever’s coming alive. I doubt any of you would be trying to kill me, specifically, but if you’re planning to annihilate Impulse Station, there’s a chance I might get caught up in that.”
“We certainly didn’t want you getting hurt,” Hi‘iaka says. “We were hoping to attack at night, when most of the mortal off-site staff would be home, and the real creeps who live here would be asleep.”
“Well, I keep some odd hours,” Samantha says. “And I realize rampant destruction is one thing gods do very well. I just want to make sure I’m well away from here when it all goes down.”
“Okay,” I say, realizing she wants to pretend our conversation in the maintenance room never happened. Paranoid little thing. “Then here’s the deal—when we’re ready to move, I’m going to dispel the magical auras defending this place. I’m fairly certain they all run through a central location, so all I need to do is find—”
“Utility closet on sublevel three,” Samantha says. I smile at her readiness; she probably researched the location since we last spoke. “Take elevator four-F on the east quad down, go straight ahead until the floor color changes to red, take your first right, and it’ll be the second door on the left. No key card entry required—they like to hide things in plain sight.”
“Elevator four-F … east quad … sublevel, um … two?” I mumble, desperately trying to copy it all down into my Mim. I still haven’t gotten the hang of typing quickly on its touch screen.
“Oh, here,” Samantha says, pulling it out of my hands. “Nice phone, by the way. Looking forward to the new version of the OS?” Her fingers dart over the screen as she speaks.
“The what?”
She shakes her head. “Never mind. So you clip the wards somehow, and then what?”
“Then—”
“You’d better get far, far away,” Pele says with a dangerous grin.
“I always trust gods when it comes to that,” Samantha says, handing my phone back to me. “Okay, let me do my part to help. You’re all thinking of this from a magical perspective—kill their spells, use your own to wreck the place—but you’re missing the technological one. Impulse Station has computer logs you’re going to want to destroy, because as soon as the building looks like it’s a lost cause, it’s someone’s job to trip the emergency backup line and transmit every shred of on-site data to a new facility. Unless you want the blame for all this, you need to get there before they do that. Oh, and trust me: You don’t want the blame for all this.”
“We weren’t really worried about that,” Hi‘iaka says, grinning. I know exactly why she seems smug about this—we have a plan about how to shift that guilt off our backs.
“Then be worried about it,” Samantha says. “This isn’t even Finemdi’s main facility. That’s in New York, and they have an additional twelve stations around the world, not counting research outposts and dig sites. You want to strike a blow here, and I get that, but just be aware that in the grand scheme of things, you’ll only be bloodying the nose of a very potent enemy.”
I’d like to tell her I’m not one for hiding in the shadows, but right now, in my weakened state, it’s probably my only option for staying alive. Fortunately, Nāmaka is still powerful—and haughty—enough to deliver the message for me. She places dampened fingertips on the table and leans in to stare at Samantha. “We do not hide from bureaucrats. Their days of twisting our minds have ended.”
Samantha sighs. “Ms. Nāmaka, please. Think for a moment. If Finemdi has the ability to believe you into compliance, haven’t you considered that they might also be able to disbelieve you entirely?”
“I … oh,” Nāmaka says, sitting back. She seems stunned at the possibility, rippling eyes wide with surprise.
“Put yourself on their hit list and evade their teams long enough, and they’ll just turn to death by disbelief. They will, of course, consider it a last resort, since it’ll require the efforts of most of their facilities to bring down a god of your strength, but they’ve done it before.”
“Hang on, what about the gang in Corrections?” I ask, realizing this could have dire implications for Sekhmet.
Samantha shrugs. “Those gods aren’t really threats anymore. They can be kept behind glass with a pittance of resources, and Finemdi doesn’t like throwing away potential tools. I mean, what do you think would sound better to a bean counter: Spend decades poisoning the minds of those gods with tainted belief on the off-chance they’ll crack, or dedicate an absurd amount of power to wiping them out completely so you can free up a cell?”
“Oh,” I say, unsure if the explanation actually makes me feel any better.
Nāmaka’s silent another moment, then holds up her hands. “All right, we do it your way. We had plans for that ‘server’ place, regardless. After I’m done at the armory, I’ll head to the room with these computer logs and—after a little meddling of my own—destroy it. Water and electronics don’t mix,” she says with a grin. “Where do I go?”
“Take the—oh, here, this will be easier.…” Samantha unclips a pen from the breast pocket of her lab coat and scribbles the directions down on a napkin. “Now, this room will be locked, so—”
“On it,” Hi‘iaka says. “You can’t keep out the wind.”
“Great,” Samantha says, pushing the napkin over to Nāmaka. The watery god picks it up and pushes it into her bag before it has a chance to get soaked.
“Are you sure you’re okay with what we’re going to do, Samantha?” Pele asks.
“Like I said, I don’t have a lot invested here,” she says, shrugging. “Not right now, at least. The closest facility is New York, so maybe they’ll move me there. I’d be working with better resources at that location, too, so there’s always the chance I can make some real headway on my project.”
“But, Samantha … your father will be here. He may die. One of us might do it,” Pele continues, frowning at the girl’s cavalier attitude toward the situation.
“That is a very poor idea,” Samantha says, locking eyes with the goddess. “He is not a normal mortal, and he has access to the best weapons and tricks the company can provide. If one of you encounters him, I’m not worried for his safety; I’m worried for yours. Please, if you see him—if any of you see him—I strongly advise you to run.” She looks to me as she finishes saying this, and the message is clear: These three goddesses might survive him. You will not.
Judging by the skeptical looks on the sisters’ faces, they probably think she’s just trying to protect her father. Knowing what he did to her mother, though, I’m inclined to believe her. “Is there anything else you can tell us about the place? Anything else that might be of use?” I ask, deciding to change the subject before one of the other women tries to commit herself to attacking Gideon Drass just to prove a point.
She frowns. “Not really. You’re already inside the building, so the hard part’s done. I guess in a more general sense, I want you to fully comprehend what you’re attempting here. Finemdi’s not my father or this facility. It’s not a handful of gods or legions of mercenaries, either,” she says, looking at each of us in turn. When her pale green eyes settle on me, I get the feeling this isn’t the first time she’s considered what it might take to destroy this place. “It’s a world-spanning conspiracy,” she says at last, still focused on me. “Their ultimate goal is to eliminate every deity on the planet, and they’ve been trying to do it for centuries. You’ve all chosen to attack the one organization on the planet that’s best-suited to killing you.”
“Are you trying to persuade us not to?” Hi‘iaka asks.
Samantha smiles at that. “Could I?” She doesn’t wait for a reply. “No, I just want you to be careful, to actually understand what you’re up against. I know why you want to do this—they’re only the greatest threat to your kind that’s ever existed, after all—but I’m not sure if you four actually know how you’ll be pulling it off.”
“Well, we’ve got to start somewhere,” I say. “Impulse Station is as good a place as any.”
The other goddesses nod in agreement. Samantha shrugs. “Okay. I don’t have the answers, either. I just want to make sure you’re thinking about it.” She looks over at the false Samantha eating by herself and sighs. “I’m going to head back to my table now. If I don’t get a chance to talk to any of you before the big day, I just want to let you know that even though it didn’t work out, I’m glad you all tried to be friendly to me. Most of the other gods don’t even manage that. Good luck, you guys.”
With that, she vanishes. Her chair trembles slightly, then scrapes to the side. I keep my eyes fixed on the illusion of Samantha monotonously eating her salad. It’s only because I’m watching intently that I notice the slight hitch as the illusion ends and she picks up where it left off, a bit of salad halfway to her mouth. She gives me a wink as she munches on the forkful of vegetables and greens, then returns her attention to her plate.
“That was kind of neat,” Hi‘iaka says, looking back at us. “Do you really think she’s on our side?”
“She hasn’t called the guards on us yet,” Pele says.
Nāmaka sighs. “I don’t believe she’s out for anyone but herself. It seems that ‘project’ of hers was her main concern. Freya, do you know what she meant?”
“I do,” I say, nodding. “But if she wanted you to know, I think she would have told you. Just believe me when I say it’s reason enough to trust her and for her to betray her father and everything he’s built here.”
“Good enough for me,” Hi‘iaka says, resuming her meal. She chose the rib eye with smoked bacon brussels sprouts, and seems more than happy to agree if it’ll return her to feasting on it sooner.
“I suppose that honestly was helpful,” Nāmaka admits. “Saves you the trouble of finding out where all their wards were cast, doesn’t it?”
I nod. “I wasn’t looking forward to tracking them down. This place is saturated with all kinds of magic. Probably would have taken weeks. And now we also know about their computer backups.”
Nāmaka sighs. “I hate this modern world. Nothing is what it seems. Now we must be wary of little bits of metal and plastic. Who would have thought you could hide so much on so little?”
“Oh, I don’t hear you complaining about that mean ol’ modern world whenever it brings you another Golden Girls marathon,” Hi‘iaka says, grinning as only a younger sister can.
Nāmaka huffs, mumbling something about how at least she wasn’t “the one hooked on reality television” before returning to her own meal. Pele laughs at their exchange, then turns to me. “So how do you plan on breaking those wards of theirs?” she asks. “I know the things my sisters and I can do are magic, of a sort, but I can’t say that I’ve ever really thought of myself as much of a spell-caster.”
“I’ve prepared a wonderful time-delayed dispelling hex,” I say. “I’ll just set it up in the room and give myself a few minutes to get away before it goes off. Should be enough to shut down every spell in the complex.”
“And then it’s our turn,” Pele says, showing her teeth. I can tell she’s been itching to cut loose ever since we started plotting. I don’t tell her this, but part of the reason I want some time to get away is because I have other things I need to do in the building after the wards go down, and I’m worried she might go a little overboard as soon as it’s time for her to act.
We finish dinner without further incident, spending the remainder of it on gossip rather than scheming. This suits me just fine, as I realized a few weeks ago that trying to cram too much planning into any given mealtime would result in the majority of it going over the girls’ heads. Besides, gossip is fun.
After we’re done, I bus my tray and head out into Finemdi’s labyrinthine halls. I check the time on my Mim and realize I have another hour to kill before Nathan’s supposed to swing by to pick me up. Finemdi actually operates a car service for deities who choose not to drive, but I prefer having Nathan at the wheel instead of some corporate goon. That, and it’s a nice chance for the two of us to catch up on our respective days.
Pele’s questions about how I plan to defeat Finemdi’s spells are still fresh in my mind, so I decide to follow Samantha’s directions to that little utility closet where they’ve collected all of their wards. As long as I don’t go over a month, I can set that hex for just about any date I want. It might be a good idea to lay it down now, so I don’t forget, time it so it goes off in a few weeks, and adjust as needed. I haven’t cast the spell in ages, either—I should probably test it, just so I can be certain it works.
I begin moving through the halls, phone in one hand and my battered facility map in the other. It’s nice to actually have directions, for once. After about ten minutes, the elevator doors open with a dull beep, revealing the letters “B3” stenciled into the walls on either side in bright yellow paint. The hallway continues straight ahead, studded with unremarkable doors at regular intervals. There’s a dull buzz of machinery in the air, and beyond that, I can sense the deep thrum of magic. It almost feels like it’s been pooling here, collecting over the years like water in a cave system. I put the map back in my bag and stick with the phone from here, walking the deserted corridors as Samantha described. I pass numerous side hallways and offshoots, but ignore them all, my attention focused entirely on the color of the floor under my feet.
It shifts from dark blue to orange to … red. There we go. I see the entrance to another corridor ahead on my right, just past two nondescript doors, and I’m about to take it when my curiosity gets the better of me. What in the world is behind all these other doors? I mean, the map labels huge swaths of these lower floors with dreary tags like Maintenance, Supplies, and Utilities, but how often is a janitor really going to hoof it five minutes down a creepy corridor for some floor wax? And take this door on my right, for instance—how would they even remember what the closet labeled B3-X-5E-36 had inside? They must have either minds like steel traps or a phone book–sized directory of the place. On a whim, I try the door handle, expecting to find the standard setup of metal shelving, cleaning supplies, and—if I’m really lucky—an upright vacuum. Instead, the door swings open on another hallway. This one’s a bit more brightly lit than the one I’m in, and its floor is light brown instead of red. I stick my head out, glancing left and right, and notice it extends a few hundred feet in either direction. Hmph. Not what I expected, but in the end, it’s just a different kind of boring.
I step back into my own hall and pull the door closed. I walk another twenty feet over the red floor and I’m about to take my first right, just like Samantha said, when I stop, something tickling the back of my mind.
Wait …
I whirl around and look at the door I just opened. Twenty feet away. An increasingly puzzled look growing on my face, I walk back, open the door again, and take a step in, then look to my left. Yeah, I thought I saw the hallway in there going a lot farther than twenty feet. I dash back out into the red hall, zip down twenty feet, and stare into the right-hand corridor I was about to take. There’s no sign of the other hall with the light brown flooring.
“Oh, you clever people…” I murmur, looking back at the door. So this is one of the hidden tricks of Impulse Station. “‘B3-X-5E-36,’ eh? And what level am I on? B3?” I’ve passed how many nondescript doors on my wanderings? I think I’m starting to understand how Finemdi’s staff gets around this place without spending hours of their day. The whole building must be laced with teleportation magic. Who knows how many different links there are throughout this facility? I should probably start trying to map these out—it could prove very useful.
One thing at a time, though. First, I’m going to find this roomful of wards. I head down the right-hand turn. I quickly pass one door on my left, and it’s not long before I come to a second. This one is apparently Utility Supply #204. I feel an odd sense of vertigo as I approach it, like I’m teetering on the edge of a vast precipice. Tiny ripples twitch and scrabble in the air around the doorframe, but I know they’re not real; even when I close my eyes, I can see them. It’s as if reality were leaking gas. Whatever’s behind this door is definitely something a little more powerful than Formula 409. I test the handle and find it turns easily, just like Samantha said it would. I open the door a crack and peek inside. The room’s single light flicks on as I do, illuminating a space not much bigger than a walk-in closet.
My vision swims and I’m forced to blink back tears as a wave of dizziness staggers me. To me, the room is in flux, constantly jumping between two states. It is at once a standard supply room like any other, yet I also see it as a writhing nest of incandescent snakes, a Gordian knot of living spells. There are so many wards, abjurations, and enchantments gathered here I can’t pick out an individual one—they’re all blending together in a bedazzling hive of energy. My deific senses are going into overdrive, like my soul’s been given a jolt of smelling salts.
I pull the door closed and lean my head against it, taking some deep breaths. Wow. Okay, so they have a lot of spells running through this place. I’m a little confused as to why they would pick a single room to be the source for all of them since it’s a bit like putting their eggs in one basket, but then I realize the only one who could even see these things is another god, and if there’s a god wandering free inside the building, the automatic assumption is that they’re friendly. Besides, I’m getting a migraine just standing here. If these were scattered throughout the complex, they’d probably have gods tripping over them left and right.
Well, one more spell won’t go amiss. I’ll just add my time-delayed disjunction magic and be on my way. I can only imagine the chaos that will result when it eventually goes off. The shattering of dozens of wards alone will probably make things very hectic, but I know there has to be one spell in here in particular that’s going to cause some real problems for Impulse Station when I kill it. I steel myself and fling open the door, facing down the madhouse of magic beyond. The trigger word is on my lips when I hear a sharp whistle to my left.
I spin and my jaw drops. Garen’s standing there, grinning at me with that disgusting smirk of his. He’s in his standard gray suit, but his right hand is clasped around a new accessory: a gorgeous trident plated in gold and polished to a razor shine. He’s not alone, either; there are a half-dozen Finemdi mercenaries in full assault gear behind him, machine guns pointed at me. He raises his trident and tips it toward me like it’s some demented fairy godmother’s wand.
“Gotcha,” he says softly.