Our destination’s not far—the tiled cells are only three levels down from the top—but Nathan is turning red and dripping with sweat by the time we reach the twelfth floor. I’m dry as a bone, of course, though I can still sympathize. With the power knocked out, the building’s central air-conditioning has been shut down, and Florida is not kind to those without electricity. To make matters worse, there’s a heat rising from below that’s deadlier than any tropical summer. Every few minutes, the building shifts as more of the lower floors melt into the lava pool Pele’s created. Panting Finemdi workers stumble past us as we race upstairs, paying absolutely no attention to anything more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other on their way out.
I race for the detention block, Nathan wheezing at my side as the squeals and groans of stressed metal echo throughout the complex. I’m forced to find my way around two impassable corridors. One is filled with caved-in ceiling debris and what I think are pieces of a satellite dish, while the other’s not even there anymore—just a long drop down four levels into a pit of jagged wreckage. When I finally turn the corner onto the hall leading to Corrections, I’m immensely proud of myself.
That sense of satisfaction is short-lived, however, as I notice we’re not alone. There are four mercenaries standing just outside the door. They’re wearing the same assault uniforms as the men who were with Garen earlier. They raise their weapons, training them on me and Nathan, and we both put up our hands. One of them begins speaking into a radio clipped to his right shoulder. “Another one, sir,” he says. “It’s a woman.”
Garen’s voice crackles over the com, sounding unstoppably angry. “Blue blouse, blond hair?”
“Yessir,” the man says, gun never wavering.
“Knew it,” Garen says. “Her friend with her? Reddish-brown hair?”
“Right beside her, yeah,” the man replies.
“Great. Shoot him first, then fill her with enough rounds to keep her unconscious. I’ll be there as soon as I can find a safe route.” The radio clicks off.
“Copy that,” the man says, finger tightening around the trigger of his gun.
I’m about to scream out, to try to dodge in front of Nathan, when all of a sudden each of the men sways drunkenly, eyes rolling up into their heads before they collapse to the ground in a heap. I frown, utterly bewildered, and turn to Nathan to ask if he did anything when I realize he’s lying on the ground as well, unconscious. All of them are fast asleep.
“Nate? You all right?” I ask, shaking him. Nothing. He’s out cold.
I’m still confused a few seconds later, when Garen comes back over the radio. “Report,” he says. “Is she—what the…?” His voice is distant now, as if he’s not talking directly into his receiver anymore. “Roberts? What are you—ah, hell. Wake up! Wake up, damnit!”
“Oh!” I say with a start, realizing what’s happened; Nāmaka must have made it to their armory, stolen a magic needle, and found someone to prick with it. Every mortal in the building will be in dreamland. “Serves you right,” I say in the general direction of the radio before turning my attention back to my friend, exasperated.
Please don’t think I’m ungrateful. This has prevented the two of us from getting shot, after all, but it does leave me with a new problem: What am I supposed to do with Nathan? I can’t just leave him here. I have to admit, I didn’t think through the full repercussions of several parts of my plan. I look around anxiously for a moment, then shrug and pick him off the floor, tossing him over my left shoulder with a grunt. I shuffle down the hall to the pile of snoozing mercenaries and snatch up one of their assault rifles with my free hand. I haven’t fired a gun in decades—I’m far more comfortable with swords and other melee weapons—but I won’t deny their lethality. This could prove useful, especially if one of the cells beyond has been breached.
I reach out to test the handle on the door to Corrections. Locked. I know all the key card readers have internal batteries they’ll use if the power goes out (thank you, Hi‘iaka, for that little tidbit) and I already spent my phasing spell, so I’m going to need to find a card with the proper clearance. I carefully set Nathan back on the floor and begin to search the sleeping mercenaries. I come away with a 9mm pistol, which I slip into my bag, a beautiful black fixed-blade combat knife, which I strap to my right arm, and one key card from their leader. I try it on the lock; the device gives a pleasant beep, and I hear a click from the door. Excellent. I take another minute to gather some extra ammunition clips from the men, stuffing them into my now-bulging purse, then hoist Nathan back over my shoulder and head into Corrections.
Besides the new emergency lighting and the guard snoozing in his little glass-walled office, the entrance looks the same as before. Then I realize there’s something else that’s not quite right: the door to the prison ward is ajar.
I move closer, pull it open just enough to stick my head in, and peer into the hall beyond. A few pieces of rubble have fallen from the ceiling, but overall it seems untouched by the chaos I’ve created. That’s not surprising—this place was built to withstand angry gods. I glance around, trying to see who opened the door, and freeze the moment I spot the intruder. Midway down the hall, standing in front of the last occupied cell, is Dionysus. He’s pacing back and forth in front of it, seeming very agitated.
“The vines won’t come!” he yells, thudding a fist into the glass in front of him.
Carefully, I pull my head back and weigh my options. Taking on Dionysus was not included in my plans. In fact, I hadn’t intended to face off against any deities. No way I can see to avoid it, though. First I guess I’ll need a place to stash Nathan. I look around and my eyes settle on the guard’s cubicle. That could work. I move toward it and try the mercenary’s key card on the door next to the half wall of glass. The lock gives me a happy beep. Smiling, I pull the door open and take Nathan inside. There’s not a lot of space in here, plus I don’t want my friend trapped with an angry man if the spell wears off early, so I drag the security guard out and carefully set Nathan down in his chair. I’m so focused on what I can do about Dionysus that I almost miss the computer screens—they’re still on, flickering in the harsh emergency lights. Looks like the prison has backup power. I lean in, squinting at the monitors. There’s Dionysus in the hall, still trying to break into one of the cells. The other imprisoned gods are watching him with great interest. I see Sekhmet, prowling back and forth, clearly looking for a way out. Every time the building shudders and sinks a little, she jumps. If I can figure out how to unlock her cell, I’ll have an ally against Dionysus. Problem is, I don’t have much time, and I’ve never been all that great at technology—besides the standard keyboard and mouse, there’s a control panel here for the cameras and the cellblock, and I have no idea what any of its numerous buttons and switches can do.
Another shriek of metal cuts through the air, and I hear the distant rumble of falling masonry. I grit my teeth and begin trying controls at random. I need to free Sekhmet anyway—might as well do it now. The hall’s lights turn on and off as I mess with one bank of switches. I move to another bank, and large steel shutters begin slamming down in front of the chambers. Nope. I reverse those and focus on a row of bright red buttons. There’s a loud whine and several imprisoned gods scream as arcs of lightning blast through their cells. Whoops. I stop pressing those buttons. The gods are looking around wildly now, confused. On the monitor, Dionysus glares down the hall at the entrance door, says something to the cell beside him, and begins stalking toward me.
Crap. He must think the guard is messing with him. Hurriedly, I move to another row of controls. The first one doesn’t seem to do anything until Izanami, the pale, terrifying Japanese girl, rises to her feet, walks over to her door, and pushes it open. Dionysus stops in his tracks as she steps into the hallway. He says something to her I can’t hear, and then she stretches, raising her hands above her head. Long shadows creep out from underneath her kimono, stealing across the floor. Even on the camera, I can see their edges are made of thousands of grasping hands and writhing tendrils. Dionysus takes a step back, but the shadows are already on him, moving over his skin as if he’s been caught in a personalized eclipse. He screams, and I can hear it clearly through the open door. Great weeping sores open on his body, patches of his skin blackening with necrosis before they slough off in sprays of blood. He crashes to the floor, trembling in pain as his body continues to heal and die in an excruciating cycle. Izanami turns away, walks to the block’s entrance, and pushes the door open. Her shadow lengthens as she moves, twisting unnaturally so it can remain on Dionysus.
I look up as she enters the room just beyond the glass. She glances at me, then walks over to the sleeping guard and places her hands on either side of his head. The barest smile touches her lips as she says, “Anata no shi wa watashi no yume desu.” Then the man melts, his body disintegrating from the head down as black lines of corruption race across his skin. A cloud of flies bursts out of his withering carcass, and the rest of his soft tissues spill away into a pool of tarry ooze, revealing a filth-encrusted skeleton. Then even the bones crumble and decay, until all that remains is a black smear on the concrete.
Izanami rises to her feet, seeming pleased with herself. The swarming flies descend behind her, extending from her back like a pair of buzzing wings. “I am in your debt, Lady of the Slain,” she says in her soft, childlike voice. She stares at me with those fathomless black orbs and bows. “I would see it repaid. Consider your choices with the greatest of care, for a favor from the queen of Yomi is not given lightly.” She straightens, and then a column of darkness rushes around her, splashing against the ceiling like a velvet waterspout. It unravels as quickly as it appeared, whipping away to reveal an empty room. She’s gone.
I hear a shuddering gasp from the cellblock and look to the security cameras to see Dionysus panting on the ground, wounds closing. The shadows have left with their maker. I return my attention to the control panel, trying to extrapolate Sekhmet’s cell trigger from the one I pressed to release Izanami. Why these aren’t labeled is beyond me—are the guards really so well trained that they’re not even the slightest bit worried about releasing the wrong god? Or maybe this is intended to make it more difficult for an intruder to do precisely what I’m attempting. If that’s the case, it’s working. I sigh and stab what I hope is the right button. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dionysus roll onto his side, groaning. He looks almost completely healed.
Then Sekhmet’s cell door swings open and she strides into the hallway, seeming pleased and surprised. Another tremor shakes the complex and she breaks into a run, heading for the exit. She aims a kick at Dionysus as she passes him, sending him sailing into the glass wall of Izanami’s former cell with a cry. Laughing, she walks into the entryway and looks to me. Her leonine features brighten immediately.
“My old friend!” she cries, extending an arm. I rush around the corner and clasp her hand in mine, kissing her once on each cheek as I shake it. “This is your doing, then?” she says as we separate.
“Impressed?” I ask, grinning.
She nods, golden eyes flashing with delight. “I was right to trust in you, dearest Freya,” she says. “Never did I think you would join them, though I feared they would prove too dire a threat.”
“Every foe has a weakness,” I say.
Sekhmet’s about to respond when a haughty voice from the doorway cuts her off. “I beg your pardon, ladies,” Dionysus says, a weary smile on his face. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry. If you don’t release my darling Tlaz, I’m afraid I’m going to need to strangle your high priest over there.” He points at Nathan, still asleep in the guard’s chair. Grapevines have burst through the wall behind him, and loops of greenery are wrapped around his neck.
“Let him go now,” I thunder.
He rolls his maniacal eyes and laughs. “Mine first.”
I take a step toward him, and he shakes his head. “Ah-ah-ah, no. You’ll do as you’re told,” he says with a smirk. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the vines tighten around Nathan.
I back away, glaring. “Good,” he says. “Now, get in there and open the cell, and be grateful I lack the time to ask for more. I considered having you parade about naked. His life is in my hands, after all.”
Sekhmet looks at me, and I give my head a tiny shake. There’s no way we can disable him before he could kill Nathan. “What is she to you?” I ask as I move toward the security room.
“What is she to me?” he repeats, laughing. “How can you not know? You introduced us!”
I stop. “What? I most certainly did not!”
“‘A beautiful lady in Corrections who’d just love to meet’ me is, I believe, how you put it,” he says, crossing his legs and leaning against the doorframe. “I was suspicious but curious, all the same. Imagine my surprise when you turned out to be correct. Lively, lustful, and lovely. I had to have her, and the feeling was mutual.”
I turn to Sekhmet, who sighs. “It’s true. He’s been in nearly every day to speak with her. They say the most despicable things to each other.”
Dionysus chuckles at that. “Oh, sweet Sekhmet, how I enjoyed your company as well. I do so love an audience.” He motions to me. “Go on, then. Release her.”
Feeling incredibly irritated with myself, I stomp into the little office, hunt for the correct button, and press it. How was I supposed to know he’d actually take my advice? And that Tlazolteotl would intrigue him? Stupid, stupid, stupid. On the camera, I watch as the chosen cell’s door opens and Tlaz saunters into the hallway, still in the eye-catching remains of her jumpsuit.
Dionysus turns to watch, an enormous grin on his face. He strolls down the corridor to meet her, the vines around Nathan loosening and falling away as he does. When they meet, they wrap their arms around each other and lock lips, losing themselves in a passionate embrace. Sekhmet watches them from the open door, somehow managing to look like a scandalized cat. I roll my eyes and haul Nathan onto my shoulder once more.
“Come on,” I say to Sekhmet as I step out of the security office. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
She frowns, and I can tell she wants to race down the cellblock to gut Tlaz. I can’t say I blame her, but we have more important things to do. “It’s not worth it, not when this place is about to collapse,” I say. “Can you help me with the door?”
I don’t think she’s entirely convinced, but then the building shakes again, and she snarls and turns away from the entwined gods, opening the door for me. We step out into the hall, almost tripping over the sleeping mercenaries. I’m a little confused by them, as I didn’t think everyone would be out for this long—I told Nāmaka she might have to keep pricking mortals. When I escaped the Inward Care Center, Nathan was unconscious for only a few minutes. The only explanation I can think of is that the effect must be tied to the needle; when Garen vanished, he took the thing with him, ending the spell prematurely. I doubt Nāmaka’s left Impulse Station yet, so maybe everyone will be sleeping a bit longer than I expected.
Sekhmet glances down at the snoozing men and gives me a questioning look. “Magic needle,” I explain. “Every mortal in the facility is in dreamland, just like Nathan here.”
She nods and loots an assault rifle from one of the men, slinging it across her back. Then she grabs another, checks to make sure the safety is off, and fires a round into the head of the nearest mercenary. His body jerks once, then goes still.
“What are you doing?” I say, surprised by the loud noise.
Sekhmet moves to stand over the next man. “I will not leave a potential foe alive,” she explains, shooting him. Her voice is so calm I’m a little taken aback—was she always this methodical and cold-blooded? “Nor should you. How long have you been adrift, Freya?”
“Adrift?” I ask, jumping a little as she looks down her rifle’s sights and fires again, killing the third mercenary.
“Hidden away, lost without purpose of love or battle, holding tight to the few worshippers you can find,” she says. She raises the weapon and points it at the head of the last man. “You are soft,” she hisses, watching me intently as she executes him.
“Excuse me?”
Sekhmet raises her gun and checks the clip, then reloads it and flicks the safety back on before resting it against one shoulder. “It is not intended as an insult, dear friend. It is merely an observation. You have lost yourself.” She places an olive-skinned hand against my cheek and gives me a toothy grin. “But do not despair. Among the righteous carnage you have unleashed, we will find your place anew. Now, what is our goal?”
That gets my thoughts back on track. “Incubation,” I say. “I have a promise to keep.”
“Ah,” she says. “More vengeance?”
I shake my head. “Mercy.”
The heat increases as we head down the nearest stairwell, staying close to the route I mapped out weeks ago, after I made the decision to fit Nantosuelta’s death into my plans. I realized I couldn’t leave her to be crushed under rubble or burned in the ruins, kept alive by whatever embers of belief Finemdi had provided. I needed to ensure she died an honorable, painless death—a true, just release from her tortured existence.
Nathan’s still unconscious, but I can tell by the beads of sweat dripping from his brow that things are getting uncomfortably warm. There’s a surging pulse of noise all around us now, a rhythmic hum composed of rising lava, collapsing floors, and liquefying metals. Impulse Station is falling apart. I can feel the ground shifting under our feet now, and even though I have no way of knowing for certain, I feel the lower levels must already be slag in central Florida’s first active volcano.
When I push open the door to the research wing, I expect to find another empty ruined hallway. The corridor we enter is certainly wrecked, but to my surprise, it’s also home to a half-dozen heavily armed mercenaries. The men raise handguns the second they get a good look at me, and I barely manage to haul the door closed before they unleash a hail of gunfire.
“What are they doing here?” I say over the sound of bullets pinging off the dense metal behind me. “And how are they awake?”
“Hybrids. Allow me,” Sekhmet says, gently pushing me to one side.
She backs up, flips the safety off her assault rifle, and runs full tilt at the door. At the last second, she jumps into the air and flings out her legs, crashing both feet into the metal with bone-jarring force. The door crumples inward, its hinges flying off in little puffs of concrete, and Sekhmet rides it down into the hallway, firing as she falls. I watch around the corner as two mercenaries drop, spurts of blood shooting up to take their places as they crumple. Then Sekhmet rolls off the door, springs up, and launches herself down the hall, clearing the space between her and the men in one inhuman leap, gun blazing. She lands among the confused and injured mercenaries, drops her weapon, and sprouts hooked, razor-sharp claws from her fingertips. Spinning and slashing, she dances between the men, claws sending them to the floor with quick, brutal sweeps. It’s over in moments.
Sekhmet straightens in the middle of the hall, standing in victory over the butchered remains of her foes. The corridor around her is covered in bright, sticky swaths of blood, her fur is matted, and her red dress is completely ruined. She shudders in bliss, bringing one blood-soaked hand to her lips and giving it a long, happy lick. Her claws vanish under her skin as she cleans herself. “Exhilarating,” she says as I approach. “It’s been so long.”
I grimace at the display, though I can’t deny that some part of me wishes I could have helped create it. “Impressive,” I reply, motioning at the door labeled Hybridization Control. Sekhmet nods and retrieves a new rifle from one of the fallen, moving to stand beside me. I reach out with my key card and try it in the reader. Once again, it beeps green and the door unlocks. Handy thing.
I move in beside Sekhmet, encountering the same glossy, high-tech architecture I remember from when I was here last. The building rumbles again as we walk down the hall, but it looks like this area has resisted most of the damage—there are only a few cracks in the walls, and it even feels cooler in here. We pad through the bright white corridor, now bathed in the harsh glare of emergency lighting, listening to the sounds of Impulse Station dying around us.
I take the right-hand turn, move through the changing room—coveralls litter the floor and one of the tables is overturned—and open the door to the Incubation laboratory. I’m about to head in when I feel Sekhmet’s hand on my shoulder.
“Stop,” she whispers. Her nostrils flare, and she shakes her head. “They are waiting.”
“How many?”
She bows her head, concentrating. “Dozens,” she says under her breath.
“What? Why? What are they doing here? How could they know I was…?” I trail off, confused. This isn’t a critical area, is it? I expected the place to be deserted. Who would want to stick around with a volcano underfoot? Then I gasp as the answer comes to me in a flash. “Garen,” I snarl. Of course. Why else would someone station those guards out in the corridor? He’s come here to save his mother, and I’ll bet he brought every hybrid warrior he could get his hands on to help.
Now what do I do? Should I really try to keep my word to kill this woman if it means plowing through her own son to do it? I believe a promise should mean something, but I’m not blind; I will not compromise myself in the name of the law when the situation has changed, and to be honest, this feels like it’s shifting from a mercy killing to an assassination attempt. I’m really not liking that idea. Besides, I still have someone else I must eliminate—my final task in Impulse Station. I sigh, letting go of this goal. “Bring her peace, Garen,” I whisper. “And another day, I will find you to collect the death I am owed.”
I turn to Sekhmet. “New plan,” I say. “I think you’ll like this one.”
She cocks her head to the side, an unspoken question.
“Revenge,” I say, grinning at her. Immediately, she breaks into a smile, revealing long incisors. I pull the door shut, close my eyes, and focus on the image of Gideon Drass as I last saw him. I think of his demeanor, the clothes he was wearing, the outline of his body, and the way he moves. Then I say a single word: “Berkshire.”
The spell blazes to life, and in my mind’s eye, I see Gideon standing in what looks like a hospital corridor, red with anger, gesturing with the stump of his left arm. This is one of my favorite kinds of magic. Divination has always been a specialty of mine, and the speed with which I’ve found my prey is a testament to that legacy. I concentrate on the image, pulling away and trying to place it in the world around me. “Where are you, Mr. Drass?” I say as I tease apart the vision. It wavers in my mind for a moment, skipping a beat like a piece of film straying from the projector before snapping back with a wider angle. He’s standing on a tiled floor, surrounded by scattered pieces of glass and concrete. Broken viewing windows line the hall on either side of him, and I can make out empty beds and toppled medical equipment through each one. There are probably a dozen mercenaries in the room, standing in a rough circle around Drass and … Garen?
What the hell?
Wait, I recognize this place: This is the patient wing where Nantosuelta was being kept. In fact, I think they’re right in front of her room, or near enough. The angle isn’t quite right for me to tell for certain, but Garen’s presence all but confirms it. There’s something else in there, too—a large black upright chamber on wheels that looks sort of like a high-tech iron maiden. One of the mercenaries is holding on to a pair of handles on its back, keeping an eye on a set of monitor readouts bolted to the side. A thick glass plate set into its front reveals an interior filled with churning shadows, a rippling sea of night. I peer closer, willing the view to contract, and make out a form in that murk. Then the tube’s occupant pushes forward, placing dainty white hands against the glass and leaning in for a better look at the two men yelling at each other in the corridor.
I frown, unable to put a name to the face. I thought it might be Nantosuelta in there, but this woman is different. I don’t think she’s a god, honestly—she’s pretty, but it’s not the flawless sort of beauty you see worshippers creating. Then she smiles, laughing silently at the argument before her, and her eyes widen in amusement. Whatever humanity she had vanishes in that moment. Those are dead eyes, reptilian and cold. She pulls down a loop of flat brown hair, smirking, and twirls it around her finger as she watches.
And I recognize her.
Those large front teeth, her too-long features … I look between her and Drass, putting the pieces together. “We have to go in there, Sekhmet,” I say, banishing the vision with a shake of my head.
“But I thought—”
“No. Everything I seek is beyond that door. Are you prepared?”
“Such a question!” she says, throwing back her head and laughing. “Always!”
“Then I’d be honored to join you in battle, my friend,” I say, setting Nathan down and readying myself.
“Words I can never tire of hearing,” Sekhmet says, checking her weapons.
I reach out for the handle, look at her, and nod sharply before flinging the door open. I do not know what Drass and Garen were arguing about, or the purpose of that strange machine, but I do know what it holds. There is something vile in there, and worse still, it wears the flesh of a human like a suit of armor. I have to face it, to understand what’s happened, because I recognize that shell. Seeing that creature and Gideon Drass together was all it took for me to make the connection.
Samantha may have her father’s eyes, but she’s the spitting image of her mother.