The sun was low over Nduino. Dusky light spread across the mountains, the plains, and the shadows of trees, and tents rippled in the slight breeze. The silhouettes of a few birds, exact mirrors of their dark counterparts on the ground, flitted across the skyline.
Seven figures were etched against the ochers and violets of the savannah. But if an onlooker were to be watching closely enough, he or she might have seen a flicker of seven more indistinct shapes, facing them.
Jack, Bál, Cire, Dannie, Ruth, Lucy, and Alex stood in a line. Another line looked back at them, as if in an oddly distorted mirror: seven figures, each translucent and humming with a soft light. Only one of these was more fleshed out. The last in the line was a winged humanoid with indigo skin, but even through him, the contours of the vista behind were visible.
They all looked down at the ground between them. The sun played on and refracted off what could have been just a pile of broken glass, tangential sparks dancing and wavering in the dust, except that closer inspection revealed there to be seven distinct Shards, each one etched with a minute symbol.
“So we’re back here again,” the red-hued spirit said. “They do shrink, don’t they?”
“Just like last time,” Anubis commented coolly.
“Well, not quite,” the sapphire one replied, smirking. “You’re not shuffling around on all fours this time, are you?”
“Seriously, though,” Ruth said, “He’s still out there, isn’t He?”
Inari nodded. “He’ll never go away entirely. No matter what we do, He is still an essential component of the universe. He’ll be always recouping, waiting, plotting, trying to find a way back to full strength.”
“And that’s why we’ll always be around to stop Him,” Lucy added smugly.
Belobog shook his head. “You won’t, and I wouldn’t wish it on any of you. There is a reason we pass away. I understand that now; I think we all do. It’s not that there’s any afterlife, anything to go on to—hell knows we would have found it by now, all the places we’ve been. Too much life, too much will to exist erodes you. The Sage is testament to that.”
“But, then, what’ll happen next time?”
“That is your last duty,” Inari said, gesturing down at the Shards. “Make preparations. Hide them. The Sage won’t rise again in your lifetime, or your children’s, or even your great-grandchildren’s, but when He does, your descendants will need to be ready.”
“Readier than we left you, at any rate,” the emerald spirit put in, glancing sideways at Inari. “Try not to make it such a close call next time.”
“Will you do it?” Anubis asked.
The seven mortals exchanged looks and nodded in unison.
“Would be a bit of a trip at the finish line if we didn’t,” Dannie commented wryly.
“So this is good-bye, then?” Jack said. “Where will you all go?”
The six spirits exchanged tired smiles.
“Where we should have gone a long time ago,” Inari replied. “To rest.”
They made their good-byes, each pair drawing closer together to speak. Jack found himself facing Inari at eye level. The two were almost exactly the same height.
“Well done. Right from that first alleyway encounter, I knew you were a good one. Didn’t I tell you that you were a better me than I ever was?”
Jack laughed. “Not so fast. You were the one who took on the Sage in the end. You stabbed the Shard.”
“And I would have died—we all would—if it hadn’t been for you and your leadership.”
Jack grinned. “There’s not going be a white fox to guide the next one of us. Unless something goes seriously wrong and I end up like you . . .”
Inari smiled, the patterns around his eyes creasing. “I don’t think we need to worry about that.”
They drew apart. The six spirits faced their counterparts, smiled, and turned. Their footsteps did not disturb the dust below them as they strode toward the sun, their outlines fading into the twilit air.
Only one remained. With twinkling emerald eyes, Lucifer watched them vanish.
“What about you?” Alex ventured. “Which one are you going to choose—the Light or the Darkness?”
The demon turned back to them, the indigo shadow of his folded wings like a stained-glass window in the dust. “I’m in a very lucky position. I can choose both.” He raised his arms at Alex’s quizzical expression. “Here I am, in the Light, free of anyone’s control. I don’t need to serve anyone anymore.
“But it’s not just me,” he continued, placing a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “You’re the same, inverted. You survived the Darkness—the proper Darkness—intact. You and I might be the first beings of our kind. We have survived both Light and Darkness, and we can exist fully in both. We are in an unprecedented position to redress the damage that has been done. We can build bridges. I may ask for your help soon.”
Alex nodded. “I hope you do. I never thanked you properly for that dream. You saved me—you saved us all.”
The angel spread his wings, black feathers extending into the twilight.
“And I never thanked you. I exist the way I do only because you imagined me.”
And in a blaze of obsidian energy, he was gone.
The seven mortals stood out on the savannah, watching the sun go down.
Jack lowered himself creakily to a seated position, and the others followed. There was, for the first time in a very long while, silence.
“We did it,” Lucy said eventually, as if she couldn’t quite believe the sound of her own voice. “We actually did it. It’s over.”
“I’m having the best sleep ever after this,” Dannie replied, lying back in the sun.
Bál had seemingly already fallen asleep, and Cire was watching the movement of the birds above.
“Not before our one last job,” Alex reminded her, leaning over to examine the way the light played off the Shards.
Ruth’s hand brushed against Jack’s.
“I think that can wait a bit,” she said, smiling.
A chime rang from the mantelpiece. Charles, reclining in an armchair by the fire, looked up from his book.
“Dinnertime.”
“I’ll go,” Hakim replied, leaving Adâ with the scatter of papers at the desk.
Hakim made his way to the kitchen, prepared a meal of hot soup and bread, and balanced it on a tray as he ascended the creaking stairs of the mansion. The house had degenerated further in their absence. The steps were white with plaster in some places, and in others, the carpet and wood had rotted through completely to afford an uninterrupted view of the lower levels. Hakim trod carefully, making his way as high as he could go.
The familiar sound of singing reached him as he drew closer to the top. The attic had only one corridor with a line of doors, all of them open, except one. Depositing the tray on the floorboards, he swept the palm of his hand over the frame, and alchemical symbols flurried across its surface. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open.
The room was slanted with the roof, suffused with a dusty light from the window opposite, although the alchemical patterns playing in the reflection on the floor showed that it, too, was supernaturally sealed. A few simple adornments—a bed, a wardrobe, a desk—were its only contents.
There was only one occupant. Seated cross-legged in the middle of floor like a toddler, a naked man was chasing his fingers across the boards to the sound of his voice. He had aged dramatically since he had been here. His face was knotted with wrinkles, and a wild mane of white hair now burst from his jaw and receding scalp. It was from him that the singing came, through broken teeth, although the voice was a high, childlike falsetto.
Hakim placed the tray on the desk, careful to stay in front of the door. The man didn’t acknowledge his presence, however, but continued his game as if nothing had happened. Tentatively, with no sudden movements, the elf knelt in front of him.
“I’ve brought you your dinner, Isaac. How are you feeling this evening?”
The man still ignored him, continuing his song while staring at the floor before him.
“Isaac . . .”
The man maintained his falsetto tune, still looking downward, but changed the words.
“The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned . . . That’s not my name . . .”
Hakim spoke louder over the continued song. “Isaac, I know you can hear me.”
The song died. The man shuddered like an old record changing track, white hair flopping over his face. Then his head snapped upward, his eyes staring straight into Hakim’s. Where, once, they had been icy blue and bright, they were now misty and half-dead. When he spoke, it was not in cracked song but a hoarse whisper.
“He can’t hear you. Only I can—and the other one, the new one. You’ll never find him. He’s gone forever. Please, please destroy this body. I beg you. Set me free.”
Hakim held his stare for a moment in silence.
“One day, Isaac, I promise you will come back to us.”
The door relocked, Hakim descended the stairs with the empty tray, the infantile song echoing behind him.