Lauren Woo wanted to drive us immediately—she’d even brought a big luxury sedan for us. She told us it was equipped with bulletproof windows and a minibar, as if it was a ride at Six Flags we might want to try.
I brushed her off. We had our van back—trashed or not—and I wanted to be the one who decided when to go and when to leave. She gave us an address, promising to meet us, and warned us not to tarry.
Tarry.
After she left, I said, “These are odd people, boss.”
“They’re rich, even richer than me. So, they get to be weirder than me. Let’s go.”
But she wasn’t leading me to the parking lot. Instead, we went back into Daria’s room.
“You two are big-time, apparently,” she said.
“Take out your phone,” Annalise snapped. “You’re our internet expert, since we don’t have anyone better, and I’m told there’s another video of us online. I want to see it.”
It only took her a few moments to find a copy, but it took another minute to find an unedited version, without jokey music overdubbed or a bunch of bullshit commentary.
That’s when I learned what Russell and Clive were doing on that laptop while I was healing up. From the phone I heard Creep’s voice, and it hit me like an electric shock.
He’s never going to give up his friends.
I nearly retreated into the hallway, but I stopped myself. I did step back in surprise, creating space for Annalise and Emily to squeeze in and watch the rest of the video.
The sound of the machete cutting through my leg made my head spin. And I heard Clive spit out a stream of high-pitched curses, something I hadn’t noticed when I was living through this moment.
“What are we looking at?” Annalise asked.
“Button cam,” Daria said. You can tell by the way it turns from side to side and by the position of the man’s arms as he moves into frame. Were they interrogating you?”
“Yes,” I said. My voice was quieter than I intended.
“So, they wanted a recording of whatever you said.”
Daria’s sister looked back at me. “That’s you.”
Events passed quickly, maybe because Clive and Russell edited it down, or maybe because it only seemed like an eternity when it was happening. Creep kept swinging that machete at my forearm, over and over, until it became almost comical.
Clive jolted in surprise when I lunged out of the chair, and when the image centered on me again, I was on the floor with Creep’s gun in my hand. The gunshots… So loud, and I looked like a clumsy idiot.
Then CrossFit came up on me suddenly. Clive just happened to have a perfect view of her putting her gun to my forehead and blasting a hole in me.
I died. I could see it there, on screen, for just a moment. I died and came back, then I watched CrossFit die, and she did not come back.
Clive’s mouth was close to his microphone, I guess, because as the camera showed me struggling to my feet with a bullet hole over my left eye, he was trying to pray. Trying, but not succeeding, because he couldn’t seem to get past Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed… Then he started over again. More than once.
There was a loud bang, and the camera swiveled to show Annalise in the doorway.
The screen went dark for half a second, then: He’s never going to give up his friends.
Daria stopped it. She and Annalise were looking at me funny. Me, I felt like walking out the door and never coming back. I felt like diving into a bottle. Anything but this shitty, shitty life.
“Play it again,” Emily said.
While that happened, Annalise stepped away and took out her phone. I didn’t want to see those people die again, so I moved toward her. But not close. Annalise’s body language made it clear that this was a private call.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Annalise’s voice was low “I figured as much. Is it making things hard for you? Shit. Well, shit. No, I’m not happy about that. Because I don’t want you to be my fucking alibi.” She was louder with each word. “Because I don’t want you involved in this at all, Becca. Giving me an alibi is going to put a fucking target on your back. You just told me you saw what happened to Ray. Now picture yourself taped to that fucking chair. That’s right. Well, don’t do me any fucking favors!”
Annalise disconnected the call and turned to me. Whatever I was feeling, after watching myself die, come back to life, and then murder a bunch of people, she was going through some shit too. It was different, but I could tell by the expression on her face that it ran deep.
“Okay. Enough,” Daria said. She turned off her phone.
“That was impressive special effects,” Emily said. “Like a real movie.”
“Yeah,” Daria added. Her words were a little sluggish and flat, but she was improving. I should have at least punched John Scarlet in the face. “Check this out. There are a bunch of response videos pointing out how good the special effects are.”
Oh.
I took the framed hospital art off the wall, creating a blank space behind me. Then I told Annalise and Emily to go to the other side of Daria’s bed.
Daria understood. She pointed her phone at me and said, “And… go ahead.”
“Rage of the Dead!” I shouted, letting my misery out as a kind of wildness. “Rage of the Dead! Coming to a theater near you this fall!”
Daria switched off the video and set her phone on her chest. “Wow. That was exactly right. We don’t have to do that again.”
Emily opened her mouth as if she wanted to give notes, then thought better of it. Maybe because of the way I glanced at her.
“Get that to…” What the hell should I call the society, with Daria’s sister in the room? She wasn’t meant to know about it. “Get that to our office. Tell them to post it online anonymously, then post an announcement that the marketing for the movie went wrong, and we regret the loss of life.”
“I see where you’re going,” she said. “It’ll be taken care of. It’s a couple days late, but I don’t think it’ll matter. Once people see this, they’ll be pissed and stop paying attention. What are you going to do about the guy who took this video?”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Annalise said, “because you’re out. Go lay low somewhere. Get better. And make sure your sister understands the situation.”
Daria sighed gratefully. “Will do,” she said, giving a mocking salute.
I followed Annalise into the hall and into the elevator. She didn’t want to talk until we were in the van and moving. Once I started the engine, she said, “I’m tempted to have Clive killed.”
“Me, too. Especially after watching that shit. I have no idea why I said we should let him live.”
“I do. Something terrible happened to you, and you wanted to be done with terrible things. You’re going to have to get over that.”
As if she summoned it out of my head, the memory of the sound of my leg being chopped in two suddenly resurfaced. The ramp to exit the hospital parking was just ahead, but I pulled into an open space thirty yards short of it.
My hands were shaking.
“What the fuck, boss?”
Annalise was looking at me. Her body language was still and relaxed, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet.
“This isn’t like what happened with your arm back in Portugal. You did that to yourself. You had control, and that changes how you felt about it. The whole time we were holed up in that RV, I’ve been waiting for this reaction, and I was starting to worry that your empty head might be too far up your ass for you to realize what happened to you.”
“I got shot in the head. I died.”
“Except you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t. They shot me at the lawyer’s office, too. It wrecked half my face—and it was ugly as shit—but I was sure the bullet hadn’t hit my brain.”
“Except a bullet had a punch to it. You know what I mean. It doesn’t just slice through the body like your ghost knife. The impact—”
“Is more widespread. So, that was probably a killing blow too.”
“How would I know? I didn’t see it. But even if it wasn’t, the old you would have fallen to the floor, helpless.”
“I’m not actually a human being any more, am I, boss?”
“Don’t be an idiot. Think about the peers you’ve met, people who’ve lived for centuries with magic that turns them into human wrecking machines.”
“Sure.”
“That’s just their outsides. Nothing that happens to your physical body makes you more or less human than you were before. Emotionally, the peers are just as stupid and self-centered as anyone. They’re complete assholes, and there’s nothing more human than that.”
“And if they’re still human, so am I.”
“So. What do you want to do about Clive?”
Solid question. If we were going to take revenge on him, I ought to be the one doing the deed. I wasn’t some crime boss, and the people working for the society weren’t my enforcers.
Except maybe they were. Or could be, if I wanted to pick up a phone and say Make it look like a suicide or maybe Plant kiddie porn on his computer and dime him out to the FBI.
It wasn’t that I was no longer human. It was that I was no longer the person I’d always been.
Moves that would have made me feel ashamed when I was a teenager running with Arne—like turning someone in to the cops or sending someone else to get my payback—actually made sense in the life I was living now. I just had to figure out how to let go of my pride.
Because if watching myself die and come back to life didn’t change things, nothing would.
“It should be an easy question, boss, but it isn’t. Clive isn’t a physical threat to us, but is he likely to expose something about the society? And how much more footage of us does he have? Besides, the guy kidnapped and tortured me. I feel like if anyone is going to put a bullet in him, it should be me.”
“If you went to his house, found him standing in his kitchen, and put two bullets into his brain, would that make your hands shake less or more?”
I didn’t answer that. I couldn’t.
“Look ahead, Ray. We’re about to meet with a primary. Even if he’s new to this—even with a so-called truce—he’ll be dangerous. I need you on your game. And to get us out of this fucking parking lot.”
Look ahead. That sounded like a reasonable plan. I looked at the exit ramp of the parking lot, pulled out of the spot, and drove out into the daylight. From there, it was a matter of driving block after block, telling myself I was just making it to the next intersection, then moving on.
I felt almost normal when we finally reached the security gate and were forced to wait while the guard ran our names through his computer. After nearly a minute, we were told where to go, where to park, and who to wait for.
Lauren Woo didn’t make us wait. We had pulled up outside a reception area and she came out to meet us, coming up to the driver’s-side door as I was unbuckling my seat belt.
“Did you get lost?” She sounded annoyed, as though we were interns delivering her coffee.
Annalise answered her question with “Fuck you.”
Without any further exchange, Woo led us to a little electric golf cart with the FriendShip logo on the side. I climbed in back and Annalise took the spot beside Woo, who drove. The motor whirred like an electric toy, but it handled beautifully.
She drove us along asphalt paths through green-and-brown scrub. Their office campus looked like a groomed version of the hills around Big Bear, except they were thick with chubby people in polo shirts and brown Dockers.
We passed a round building with walls made of glass from the roof to the ground, and I thought it looked creepy as hell. The people milled around inside like ants in a farm.
Then she turned and drove a circling path up a gentle hill. There were no more workers to honk at or swerve around. We were alone.
At the top, she parked beside the door of a small round glass building with a peaked round roof on top. I glanced inside and saw nothing but carpet and a set of stairs leading down into the hill.
“I’m to stay here, by the cart,” Woo said. “Please go down the stairs and head for Auditorium Sonora. Mr. Hardy is already there, waiting for you.”
She put a little emphasis on that last sentence, as though we should be embarrassed about it. We went inside, and I took a minute to walk around the glass room and take in the view, just to be a prick.
The boss wasn’t as petty, so when she went down the stairs, I followed her. We passed under a smooth concrete arch with recessed lighting. Burgundy carpets muffled our steps.
Auditorium Sonora was the first we came to. The door was whisper-quiet as we pushed it open and saw a screen with a few dozen seats fanned out before it. Presumably, there were larger auditoriums farther down.
“Welcome,” Hardy’s voice said through the PA system. “Please make yourselves comfortable near the microphone.”
Hardy wanted a truce but he wasn’t ready to trust us. Smart guy. Annalise and I went to the center aisle and sat on either side of the mic stand there. “Can you hear us?” I said, hoping he wouldn’t tell us we needed to stand in the middle of the floor like we were his fans.
“Yes, thank you. Do you know why you are here? It’s because I have spent many years seeking out hidden knowledge about magic, about the predators, but most of all, about the Originals, which you call ‘original spell books.’ Much of this knowledge you already have, but some, it seems, has been lost to you.”
He paused, as though waiting for us to disagree or something. Annalise said, “Keep going.”
“The Twenty Palace Society has been trying to acquire all three of the Originals since it was first formed. It has had one—or more commonly, none—for almost all of its history, losing them to a predator or rogue sorcerer as almost quickly as it could acquire them. When the society had two Originals and was close to acquiring the third…”
“We were attacked and nearly destroyed,” Annalise finished, once it was clear he would not end the sentence himself.
“Have you ever wondered why?”
She didn’t respond. I looked across the aisle at her expression and thought the answer must be No.
When Hardy’s voice returned, it was accompanied by a sudden flash of light that startled me to my feet. It was just a projection onto the screen, showing a rocket on a launch pad in the first stages of lift-off. Painted on the side was Hardy Distance One, the words looking like they had already been formatted for a newspaper headline, and I recognized that this was Hardy’s own ship. We were about to watch the failed launch.
“The Book of Grooves, as you call it, was recovered in a storage facility in a Seattle suburb called Shoreline. The man who had it—it makes no sense to say he owned it, because he acquired it through murder and theft—never used it to gain power. He merely opened it, began to experience its supernatural effects, then shut it away, hiding it from the world. A surprisingly common reaction, it turns out. Some people are afraid of power and their own potential for greatness.
“The Book of Motes was recovered from the bottom of a well in the central valley of California. I know the Twenty Palace Society tried to track it down, trying to follow the trail of a woman named Edith Sylvester, who fled with it out of Sacramento in 1897. The historians the society hired searched everywhere for her, city after city, from Vancouver to Sarasota, but she barely managed to travel fifty miles before she died, thrown into an abandoned well by either her enemies or herself, the Original in her pack.
“And there was the Book of Oceans, which I believe you have recovered from a private art collection in Los Angeles. Don’t worry. I won’t ask you to deny or confirm this, because I know you won’t. Isn’t it interesting, though? We live in a whole world of mountains, deserts, and oceans, but all three Originals turned up along the same coastline, on the same continent, and have been found around the same time.
“That is because the Originals, these three artifacts that are the source of magical instruction for every spell ever cast on this planet, move toward each other. They don’t move themselves, but they do urge their owners to converge, and slowly, it happens.”
“Is that what you’ve done?” Annalise asked. “Put these ‘Originals’ together?”
“No,” Hardy said emphatically. “Watch the screen, please.”
The video was running fast, showing the rocket climb into the atmosphere, then it slowed down. The rocket seemed to shudder, and plumes of flame burst out of the bottom, then the middle, then the nose.
“Did you see that? Please notice.” The video kept going, restarting the destruction of the rocket. Then it slowed to a crawl, frame by frame.
A red circle on the next frame indicated a small speck emerging from the flames. The next frame showed it farther away.
“Experts say that the rocket was hit by something. A meteorite, they think. But no. That tiny object you see is the Book of Grooves.”
“You tried to send it to the moon?” I blurted.
“Farther. Human beings have been to the moon and will return there if they are allowed to continue as they have. The rocket’s planned trajectory would have made it slingshot around the Earth and then head up out of the plane of our solar system. We made sure it had enough fuel that, with the solar sails deployed, it could have passed the heliopause and drifted into the vacuum. Far, far from the other Originals.
“But just before the rocket passed out of the troposphere, the Book of Grooves froze in place. It would go no higher, as if it had struck a ceiling, and the rocket tore itself apart as this immobile artifact punched through it.”
“Then it fell back into the desert,” Annalise said, “and you hired Ten Bar to recover it.”
“I already had a contract with Ten Bar for certain special projects, including acquiring the Originals in the first place. I couldn’t risk letting the Book of Grooves fall into the hands of someone else, someone who might acquire power from it and bring it closer to the others.”
“Why not?” I asked. “I mean, I get why you want these Originals for yourself. But what happens if they’re brought together?”
A door opened on the side of the stage and Milton Hardy stepped out. He was wearing a henley the color of a white sand beach, and his beachcomber pants were the same color. His feet were bare.
He was fair enough that he almost looked bald and his movements were quick but measured, like a guy who was hyper aware of his own body. In one hand he carried an odd stainless-steel cane on his shoulder like a baseball bat. In his other, he carried a black leather bag.
Each step was silent on the carpet as he approached, set the bag on the floor, moved the mic stand to the side, and unfolded the odd cane into a three-legged stool. He sat in the aisle between us. Because of the rake of this theater, he’d put himself below us. Not the usual choice for a successful CEO.
Then he reached down and unzipped his black bag. There was a bomb inside.
“This facility is empty today. It’s just us. If you try to kill me, I’m going to bring down a few tons of concrete on you. Maybe it would kill you. Maybe not. But it would not be pleasant. I don’t say this to threaten you. I would much rather continue our talk.”
I cut in. “Then let’s talk. That’s why we’re here, right?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward, folded his hands, and rested his elbows on his legs. “Have you heard of the Hatchling?”