Finally, Raphael couldn’t take it any longer. He’d napped in the big leather command chair for hours, gone through his kung fu form no less than ten times, and done pushups on the cab’s ancient-looking floorboards until his muscles trembled. He’d even tried to decipher the strange markings on the train’s gauges. When every other option was exhausted, he’d stared out at the billows of fog whooshing past the windshield until he felt like he was being hypnotized.
But still, the train continued its inexorable and meteoric forward motion. It didn’t slow or speed up or turn. And the fog didn’t abate or change, not even for an instant. Though he was rocketing toward some unknown destination, Raphael felt like he was in an eerie state of suspension.
He had no clue how much time had passed—minutes, hours, or days. He was leaning toward days, although strangely enough, he was neither hungry nor thirsty. For hours, he’d obsessed over what might be going on in Middleburg and how he might get back there, but after a while he’d simply decided it was out of his control and pushed it out of his mind. He was terribly bored for a long time, but eventually that receded, too, leaving him pleasantly vacant, neither happy nor sad, neither relaxed nor anxious, utterly devoid of expectation.
He’d also given up trying to guess where the train might end up. For all he knew, it would go on like this forever. The thought terrified him at first, but now he was strangely okay with it.
This feeling of complete surrender reminded him of his Master Chin’s qigong training, and he immediately settled down in the leather armchair and began to meditate.
More time passed—again, he had no idea how much—but sometime during his meditation, the thought came to him: Pull the lever. Stop the train. Abruptly, he opened his eyes, stood up from the chair, and approached the train’s control console. Before, he had been afraid to touch the brass lever that he guessed was the throttle. Now, he grasped it confidently with both hands and in a slow, smooth motion he pulled it backward, toward himself. The all-consuming hum of the engine lowered in pitch with each inch the lever moved, and Raph kept pulling until the brass shaft was perfectly vertical. It clicked into place, and the massive locomotive gave one final lurch and stopped.
The sound of the train’s engine had disappeared, leaving in its wake a silence that was even more eerie than the drone of the engine had been. As he stared out the window, he thought for one disorienting moment that he was still moving—the fog remained outside, just as it had been since he’d first awakened on the train. But a second later, he realized that the billows and wisps were no longer moving. They stood in heavy, static sheets, like an infinite series of gray curtains that slowly drifted closed or opened, revealing more gray curtains behind them.
Despite his desolate surroundings, he felt a shock of excitement at the prospect of getting off the train and exploring, and he hurried to the door of the cab and opened it. Clambering down a metal ladder, he sighed in relief as his sneakers hit the hard-packed earth.
He looked around. A warm breeze hummed softly around him, stirring the fog, but that was the only sound or movement he could detect. Off to his right, he could see railroad tracks stretching away until the haze and mist swallowed them up.
The train looked just as he remembered it from the glimpse he’d gotten back in Middleburg. The engine was huge, probably over thirty feet tall and a hundred feet long—and black, as if the whole thing was made of cast iron. Here and there, the black was accented with another metal he couldn’t identify. This strange, greenish alloy formed the stairs, the seams around the engine’s massive, barrel-like boiler, and the menacing triangle of the cowcatcher. The engine’s single headlight, too, gave off a strange, vaguely greenish glow.
Attached to the engine was a series of boxcars, as huge and black as the engine. They were all identical, just big, black rectangles, and Raphael counted nine of them before their lineup disappeared into the fog.
I wonder what’s inside them, he thought. What kind of cargo would a supernatural train speeding into oblivion carry?
He hesitated for a second and then decided to find out. In a few strides, he made his way to the nearest boxcar. There were a few steps of greenish metal leading up to a massive, square doorway, and when he mounted them and grabbed the door handle, he got a closer look at the material the car was made of. Leaning closer, he ran a hand over it. Sure enough—it wasn’t made of metal at all. It had been carved of some black, granite-like stone. It reminded Raphael of a slab that would cover a grave, and he quickly pulled his hand away.
That’s when he heard a sound from inside the car.
Footsteps.
“Hello?” he said, leaning closer to the door, but the only answer was the wind, whispering across the flat, empty land.
Taking a slow, steadying breath, he reached up and gripped the greenish metal handle. He expected that the huge, stone door would be too heavy for him to pull aside, but it seemed to be perfectly weighted, and as he pulled the handle, the latch released, and the big granite slab slid to his right.
The sun or moon—or whatever indistinct light source it was that illuminated this world—shone into the black interior of the train car as Raphael peered inside.
At first, he could see nothing but formless shadows, then came the sound of quick footsteps approaching. It was a man with a heavy paunch at his beltline, a balding head, and dim, squinty eyes. Raphael thought for a second that he recognized him, but before he could figure out how he knew him, the guy charged at him.
“Close the door!” the man said. The desperation in his voice was frightening, and he had a wild look in his eyes. Something about him—the urgency of his tone, the glazed intensity of his expression, or maybe the way he appeared from the recesses of the shadows so suddenly made Raphael think of an insane ghost.
“Close it! Close it! Close it!” the man said, charging Raphael with rising fury.
Raph heaved on the heavy door with all his might, and the last thing he saw before it slammed shut was the man’s eyes staring at him, electrified with madness, and his grease-stained hands, groping toward Raphael through the fast-closing gap of the door. When it shut with a bang, Raphael jumped down from the ladder and the sudden overwhelming fear he felt sent him running away from the train.
Wisps of fog clung to him like spiderwebs, slipping around him as he ran and his heart beat fast, pounding in his chest. After a moment, the fear of getting lost overcame the fear of the man in the boxcar and he slowed to a jog, and then to a walk. When he turned around he could no longer see the train.
This can’t be good, he thought, and ran back in the direction he’d come. He ran toward the train for as long as he had run away from it, then twice as long, but it was gone. There was no sign of train or tracks. There was nothing but the fog, endless and listless, enshrouding him.
“Hello?” Raphael yelled, his fear coalescing into a wave of frustration. “Hello!” he shouted with all his might, but no one answered his call. There wasn’t even an echo.
With a groan, he fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands. He’d been lost before, when he was a kid exploring the woods around Middleburg with Zhai. That was scary, but it was nothing compared to this. This time, he hadn’t just lost his way, he had lost his world. And this time, there was no friend to keep him company.
“Hello.”
The voice seemed to come out of the mist, and as it swirled away, Raphael saw a familiar figure standing before him: black fingernails, long black hair, dark eyes. Only his outfit was different. Now, he wore a robe the color of fresh, spring green.
“Magician,” Raphael said. “Why am I not surprised?”
The Magician’s cunning eyes narrowed as he laughed. “Ah, asking me questions now, are you?” he said.
“Just tell me where I am and how I get back to Middleburg,” Raphael said. Then, on second thought, he added, “Please.”
“Very well,” the Dark Teacher said. “You are in the borderland of the Dark Territory.”
“Dark Territory . . .” Raphael said. “I thought that was just a railroad term.”
“It is,” the Magician said. “The Dark Territory is the destination of the train you have been riding. Middleburg is its second-to-last stop.”
Raphael thought of the man in the boxcar. Suddenly, he remembered where he’d seen him before: he was a gas-station attendant from Middleburg. He remembered the guy’s name, too. It was stitched on the front of the uniform he always wore: Don. But the last time he’d seen him wasn’t behind the counter of the gas station; it was in Middleburg’s newspaper. There had been a photo of him next to an article. Raphael remembered the headline, too: local man hit by truck and killed.
Raphael balled his trembling hands into fists and addressed the Magician again. “There was a man on the train, in one of the boxcars. I know him.”
The Magician nodded.
“Where is the train taking him?”
The Magician scowled. “I will not repeat myself,” he said and turned to disappear back into the fog.
“Wait!” Raphael called after him, his mind racing. “Why is the train taking Don to the Dark Territory?” he asked again, desperate to know.
When the Magician turned back to Raphael this time, he was smiling. “You know why.”
The breeze that had been warm and calming a moment before seemed, to Raphael, to drop a few degrees. He shivered.
“Because . . . he’s dead,” Raphael said. The Magician didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Raphael already knew it was true.
If what the Magician was saying was right, Raphael had just been on a train full of ghosts, speeding toward . . . what?
“What will happen to him in the Dark Territory?” Raphael asked warily.
The Magician gazed at Raphael. “That information is usually withheld from the living,” he replied sternly.
His answer made Raphael feel a little better: it meant he was still alive. For a second, he had been afraid he was a ghost, just like Don. But another thought followed closely behind the first: if the Dark Territory was where people went when they died, maybe his father was there, too. And maybe that meant Raphael could see him again. The idea filled him with a dizzying feeling that was half elation and half terror.
“If I get back on the train and go there—to look for my dad—will I be able to get out again?”
The Magician’s grin faded. “You can get back on the train, but know this: those who enter the Dark Territory are rarely the same when they come out.”
Raphael frowned. “What does that mean?”
“They are re-formed,” the Magician said.
Raphael wasn’t sure if he meant reformed or re-formed, but either way it sounded a bit ominous. Getting back on the train also sounded like a bad idea—besides, he didn’t even know where it was anymore.
“Okay, so if I don’t want to get back on the train, where should I go?” Raphael asked.
The Magician pointed to his right. “This direction is time.” He pointed the opposite way. “This direction is space.”
Raphael looked in both directions through the featureless haze.
“And which way to Middleburg?” he asked.
The Magician pointed in a third direction, which was also obscured by fog.
“That is the way. But beware, Raphael Kain. Those who inhabit the borderland are restless souls, rebels who have rejected their re-formation. If you attempt to cross the wasteland, you will have to fight them every step of the way.”
Raphael nodded. Phantom trains, parallel worlds, and creepy magicians all frightened and mystified him—but fighting was one thing he understood.
“Thanks,” he said to the Magician. He started off in the direction the Dark Teacher had indicated, then paused and turned back.
“You said something about time,” Raphael said. “Does that mean if I go in that direction, I can get to anywhere in time from the borderlands?”
“Of course,” the Magician said.
Considering the Magician’s words, Raphael stared off into the distance, in the direction the Magician had identified as time. He had so many regrets; he had inflicted so many wounds in the past, and those he loved had suffered so much. If only he could go back and change things. He could make it so that Aimee never met Orias, Emory and his family never got evicted, or his mom never started dating that bastard Jack Banfield.
But there was one thing, more than anything else in the world, that he wanted to go back and change. The first time he’d heard of the Wheel he’d secretly thought of it, and with every mention of time travel since then, it had lingered in his mind, a dark and forbidden hope that he longed for with every thread of his being. . . .
He wanted to ask another question, but when he turned back to look for him, the Magician was gone.
“Disappeared again. Typical,” Raphael muttered.
No, he decided firmly. It was too risky to go charging through time or to try to take the phantom train to visit his father in the Dark Territory. The safest bet was to go back to Middleburg now and make sure his mom and Aimee and the Flatliners were all okay. Once he did that, maybe he could find his way back and explore the borderlands.
“Middleburg, here I come,” he said. He was about to start walking when he remembered the Magician’s warning. Enemies would confront him at every step, he’d said. Well, Raphael thought, bring ’em on.
He started walking and before long a figure appeared in the fog. The man was short, probably only four feet tall. He was naked and looked like he was more monkey than man, with his long face and hairy, apelike limbs. He shouted a shrill, inhuman battle cry at Raphael, and with both arms flailing, he attacked. Raphael managed to block his fists and sweep his front leg, causing his opponent to do the splits. As the monkeyman fought to keep his balance, Raphael caught him in the face with an elbow and he tumbled backward and disappeared into the mist.
Raphael started moving forward again, but he’d gone no more than two paces when a stone-tipped spear appeared through the fog and jabbed at his face. It almost stabbed him in the left eye before he managed to block it with a Pak Sau. The man wielding the weapon looked something like a Neanderthal, just as the first one had, only he was a bit taller and wore a furry loincloth. Raphael grabbed the shaft of the spear he was holding and used an arm-break technique to snap it. In a flurry of swift motion, he spun close to his opponent and impaled him with his own broken-off spearhead, and then he charged onward.
When he looked up, he saw more figures coming toward him out of the fog, and he felt his optimism flagging. The Magician was right. If this was the path back to Middleburg, he would literally be fighting every step of the way.
* * *
Aimee watched as her father stood at the end of their beautifully decorated dining room table. He gave Savana Kain a flash of his charming smile, then raised his crystal champagne flute and saluted her. Aimee was there with Orias, Cheung and Lotus Shao sat at the far end of the table, and Maggie was sitting next to Rick. Aimee wondered what Maggie looked so anxious about.
Aimee already had an idea what was coming; her father had hinted at it before their guests arrived, probably to make sure that she didn’t get upset by the news and ruin his little announcement. She wasn’t sure if Rick knew or not. Certainly, he was too oblivious to notice the huge diamond that sparkled on the ring finger of Savana’s left hand. Aimee watched her brother now, wondering how he would react to what their father was about to say.
“First, I want to thank you all for being here,” Jack continued. “Some of you are family. Some of you are almost as close as family, and all of you hold a special place in my heart. That’s why it’s such a pleasure for me to share this great news with all of you. As I’m sure many of you know, Savana and I have been seeing each other for quite a while now, and as you can see, we’re about to welcome a new little life into the world. So, we’re getting married,” he finished. “On Saturday, at city hall. And you’re all invited.”
There was a pause before Lotus and Cheung broke the silence with their applause.
“Congratulations,” Orias said smoothly, smiling, and Aimee thought he was sincere. Rick scowled, pushed his chair back from the table, and stalked out of the room.
Aimee sat perfectly still for a moment, unsure of her feelings. It was like that moment of uncertainty where she knew she felt queasy, but didn’t know if she was going to throw up or not. She couldn’t tell if she was happy or devastated, furious or apathetic, and she wondered how her father could replace her mother so soon, so casually. Finally, with everyone looking at her, she reacted, and it was so spontaneous she couldn’t stop herself. She laughed, then she laughed again, and after a moment she was laughing so hard that tears of helpless mirth were rolling down her face. It wasn’t until Orias squeezed her hand under the table that her laughter finally subsided.
“Sorry, I thought of something funny,” she said. She had thought of what her mother would say when she returned and discovered what had happened while she was gone. The chaos Aimee imagined taking place on that day in the future was as hysterical as it was heartbreaking.
She was sure that her outburst would make her dad angry, but he was distracted. Savana was leaning close to him.
“Wait, Jack,” Savana protested. “Saturday? That’s too soon. We need time to plan. I need a dress. We have things . . . things to discuss.”
Jack brushed a stray hair from her face and soothed her with a whisper: “Plenty of time for discussion later. We’re getting married before the baby is born. You know how I feel about that.”
“But city hall? I told you I wanted it at Middleburg United.”
“The church is booked this weekend, and my buddy in the mayor’s office got us in downtown—opening city hall as a favor to me, even though it’s Saturday. Don’t worry. It will be fantastic. I got you set up at Lotus’s flower shop—get anything you want. I don’t care about the cost. The lady at Middleburg Couture will make your dress—you have a fitting tomorrow. It will all work out. The main thing is that we’re together, like we talked about—right, baby? Right?”
Jack spoke gently, but the customary firmness never left his voice. It was as if he were negotiating with a child, Aimee thought—he spoke quietly, humoring Savana a bit, but there was no question that he was going to get his way. He finished his little speech by smiling at Orias and Cheung, like a stage actor pausing in his scene to ham it up for the crowd.
Savana started to protest again, then seemed to remember that everybody was looking at her. She added her smile to Jack’s. “Of course,” she agreed.
“I’m sure it will be a beautiful wedding,” Lotus said. “Let me know if you’d like any help with planning—especially with the flowers.”
“Nine A.M. at city hall,” Jack said. “I hope to see you all there.”
A loud crash reverberated from the other room. Probably Rick breaking something, Aimee thought. Across the table, she saw Maggie go pale, but her father went on as if nothing had happened.
“Well, let’s have some dessert and celebrate, shall we?” he said and called toward the kitchen. “Lily Rose, would you bring in the cake, please?”
* * *
After Orias, Maggie, and the Shaos departed, Jack directed Aimee to sit on the couch in the living room with Rick.
Aimee could hear the familiar and comforting sounds of clacking plates and rushing water from the kitchen, as Lily Rose cleaned up the celebratory feast. She seemed always to be around during the scariest, most volatile moments at the Banfield household. Aimee found her presence infinitely comforting, and this was a moment, she thought, when everyone in the house needed some comfort.
Her father and Savana Kain stood in front of Rick and Aimee as a pair of burly movers passed through the hallway and up the stairs, hauling a load of suitcases and boxes. At least Jack had waited until their guests had left to tell them that Savana was moving in.
Rick was still steaming.
“Listen, Rick, I understand that you’re upset,” Savana was saying. “But I promise, I’m not trying to replace your mom.”
“Yeah—like that could happen,” Rick said sullenly but clamped his mouth shut at a look from his father.
“And this baby isn’t going to replace you or your sister, either,” Savana went on. “Your dad has made it very clear that you kids are his number-one priority—”
“I don’t care about you or your stupid baby,” Rick broke in.
“Exactly what is your problem?” Jack asked flatly. Aimee knew what it meant when he talked like that; his patience with Rick was gone.
“I can’t believe you’re marrying the mother of a Flats rat!” Rick exploded.
“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, and I don’t need your permission,” Jack returned sharply, but Savana put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“Okay,” she said to Rick. “I get it. I know that you and Raphael had some problems, but when we find Raph and you get to know him, I’m sure you’ll be able to work it out. He’s really a good person—and I’m sure he’ll see that you are, too.”
“I know him as well as I want to,” Rick sneered. “Did you know he called my dad a murderer? He stood right there in our foyer and threatened him—threatened our whole family. He vandalized our property. He broke my friend Cle’von’s arm. Knocked Bran Goheen out. Now you expect me to act like we’re brothers?”
“Rick,” Jack warned.
“If he tries to move into this house, I’ll kill him!” Rick shouted. “How’s that for brothers?”
“That’s it. To your room, now,” Jack said.
Rick’s eyes ignited with fury and his fists clenched. For a second, Aimee thought he might actually attack their dad. Then he simply stood and walked out of the room. They all winced at the sound of his feet pounding up the stairs.
Savana looked at Aimee. “What about you, Aimee?” she asked gently. “You’ve been so quiet tonight. Are you okay with all this?”
Aimee shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “I guess so.”
“I know you and Raphael were close for a while,” Savana pressed on. “Will it bother you if he comes to live here when he gets back?”
Aimee was looking at her fingernails. The tip of one of them was broken. “What?” she asked distractedly.
“Raphael. I know the two of you dated. How do you feel about him now? About him living here?” Savana asked.
“How do I feel?” Aimee asked. It was strange, she knew what Savana wanted to know, but she was finding the conversation difficult to follow. It was like trying to talk to someone on a bad cell phone connection, where she could hear only about half of their words. It was frustrating.
“Yes,” Savana replied, her voice kind and concerned. “It’s not like I’m asking for your blessing, you know—about me marrying your dad. I know that will take time. I just want to know that there wouldn’t be any bad feelings between you and Raphael if—when—he comes home.”
“Oh,” Aimee said vaguely.
“So stop stalling,” Jack said impatiently. “And tell us how you feel about him.”
“I don’t know,” Aimee answered. “I guess . . . I don’t feel anything.”
“So if he comes back, it won’t bother you to have him here?” Jack asked. “And I won’t have to worry that you’re going to start something up with him again?”
“Oh—no, of course not.” Aimee thought it was a ridiculous question. She had Orias now. She wondered why her father thought she would be interested in anyone else. She had gone to some dance with Raphael—at least that’s what Dalton had told her—but she couldn’t even remember what he looked like. Right now she was wondering if she would be allowed to go back to Orias’s tonight or if her dad would insist that she stay home. The idea of sipping Orias’s delicious tea in front of the fire with his powerful arms wrapped around her made this and everything else in life seem like a meaningless waste of time.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Savana said with wary optimism. “I was a little worried. I just want you to know what I said to Rick is the truth. I’d like to be your friend, but I don’t want to replace your mom. I know how hard all this must be for you. And I want you to know that when you’re ready, I’m here for you.”
Aimee smiled. “Thanks, but there’s just one thing—no offense, Mrs. Kain,” she said and turned to her dad. “What about Mom? Aren’t you even going to look for her? She could be out there somewhere, hurt or something.”
“That’s enough, Aimee,” Jack told her harshly. “Of course I looked for her. But we have to accept it. She’s gone and there’s no trace of her anywhere. She’s been declared legally—”
“Jack, wait,” Savana interrupted him. “This is not the time.”
“Yes it is,” Jack insisted, his frustration clear. “Aimee, your mother has been declared legally . . . deceased. You’re just going to have to accept it. No matter how much we miss your mom, she isn’t coming back. She’s gone and you’ll never see her again. But my life—our lives—must go on. Okay?”
“Okay,” Aimee said, but silently, to herself, she added, Oh, I’ll see her again. As soon my teleportation skills are up to it, Orias will help me find her. And, boy, is she going to be mad when she gets back.
* * *
Savana sat wearily at the table in the Banfield’s kitchen as Lily Rose set a steaming cup of herbal tea in front of her.
“Got anything stronger?” she asked. Lily Rose gave her a reproving look.
“Kidding! I’m kidding,” Savana said. She stared into the teacup for a moment, absently swishing the bag around in the hot water. “Those kids hate me, you know.”
“Well, they’ve been going through a lot. We all have lately, haven’t we?” Lily Rose replied complacently as she loaded the dishwasher.
“You can say that again,” Savana agreed.
“You just keep yourself calm and cool and have faith that everything will be all right,” Lily Rose advised. “What you don’t want to do is worry that baby. Stress is just as bad for those unborn little ones as it is for you and me.”
“I know, and there’s something I need to ask you. I know you gave up your midwife practice a while back—”
“I know what you’re going to ask,” Lily Rose interrupted. She put down the serving platter she was rinsing and joined Savana at the table. “Have you asked Jack about it? You know he always wants the best—and to him that’s a big shiny hospital and a high-priced doctor. Not some tired old woman who cleans his toilets.”
“But you are the best,” Savana said earnestly. “Everyone in town says so. They say you can perform miracles. And I need your help. Because there’s something . . . this baby, Lily Rose. Something is . . . different.”
She was about to say more when she looked up and saw Jack standing in the doorway.
“What?” he asked. “What about our baby is different?”
Savana hesitated for a second. “It . . . oh, it’s nothing,” she said finally. “It just kicks more than usual. Here—feel.”
Jack came over and put his hand on her stomach.
“I don’t feel anything,” he said. She could tell he was in a bad mood again. It was hard to keep up with Jack. One minute he’d be so sweet and kind and charming, then something would go wrong and he would turn cold and distant, as if his relationship with her was just another frustrating business transaction he had to endure.
“Jack, did you know Lily Rose is a licensed midwife?” She turned to the old black woman. “How many babies did you say you’ve delivered, Lily Rose?”
“Two hundred and five,” Lily Rose said proudly and went to the dishwasher again.
“That’s nice,” Jack said, taking a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet and pouring himself a glass.
“I was thinking of asking Lily Rose to deliver the baby,” Savana said.
“Well, stop thinking about it,” Jack replied and then took a sip of his drink. “No offense, Lily Rose, but Dr. Rosenberg at Stormont-Vail in Topeka is a friend. We’ll go there.”
“But what if the baby comes early, Jack? We can’t drive all the way to Topeka—”
“I’ve rented a condo in the city for you to move into a couple of weeks before the due date. I’ll be there every weekend, and I’ll have a driver on call in case you go into labor when I’m not there.” He smiled at Savana. “You see, my darling—I think of everything.”
“That’s great, Jack, and I appreciate it, but—”
“It’s nonnegotiable,” he said harshly and then added gently, “my love.” He downed the last of his drink and walked out of the kitchen.
Lily Rose turned on the dishwasher and wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, I guess I’m just about done here,” she said, giving Savana a sympathetic smile. “But if you need me, you know right where to find me, don’t you?”
* * *
Aimee sat on her bed and looked around her room. It had been so long since she’d spent time here that everything seemed unfamiliar. But even stranger than her surroundings was a sudden recollection of the girl she had been before she met Orias. If she was still that girl, she would have freaked out tonight, when her father had grabbed her arm after Savana went into the kitchen with Lily Rose, marched her up the stairs, and thrust her into her bedroom. She would have been wracked with misery at the threat he had snarled at her, that she would be sorry if she tried to see Orias again until after he and Savana were married. If she acted up again, he had promised, he would send her back to boarding school immediately.
“You think just because I’m going into business with Orias that you can do whatever you want,” he’d said. “But you’re going to do what I want for a change—and that is to keep your butt at home and make Savana feel welcome and help her get ready for the wedding. Got it?”
Without waiting for her to answer, he’d slammed the door and locked it. The sound of the lock clicking into place would have sent the old Aimee into a downward spiral of hurt and anxiety. That familiar crippling, gnawing fear that came from feeling trapped and powerless would have crept up her spine until it paralyzed her. But now, as she dangled her feet off the bed, she was only amused.
Serene, she rose from the bed, smoothed her skirt with her hands, and looked at her closed door. “Bye, Daddy,” she said and teleported out of her room.
It took less than a second. It felt something like a shiver, and Aimee was so good at it from all her practice with Orias that it took no more effort than a sneeze. When she opened her eyes, she was standing in the middle of Orias’s parlor in front of a crackling fire. He sat in his usual spot on the couch, gazing into the trembling flames, and sipping from his chalice. As Aimee appeared, however, he started, almost spilling his drink.
“You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that!” he exclaimed. He put down the drink and pulled her into his arms. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”
Aimee laughed. “Oh, I didn’t know that Nephilim have hearts,” she teased.
“I don’t,” Orias said tenderly. “Not anymore. I gave mine to you.”
Aimee smiled and pressed her head against his broad, powerful chest, inhaling the strange incense and musk scent that marked his divine presence.
“I thought your father wanted you to sleep at home,” Orias observed.
“He did,” Aimee said, nuzzling her face into his shirt. “But I didn’t want to. And thanks to everything you taught me, no one can control me anymore.”
She lifted her head and looked at him. He seemed strangely disturbed for a moment, but the expression disappeared quickly, replaced by his usual charming smile.
“Anyway, I can slip back into my room before school tomorrow, right?” she said.
“Of course, my love. Now . . . how about a nice cup of tea?”
* * *
Zhai stood for a long time in the shadowed hallway, staring at the swirling patterns of the wood grain in his father’s study door. For the last few months, curiosity and resentment had risen within him like a cresting flood, but as many times as he’d approached this door, something had always made him shy away from confronting his father about his association with the Order of the Black Snake. For a long time, he’d thought it was respect, but lately he’d begun to think it might be fear—fear of what his father might tell him.
Either way, there was no more time for hesitation. Master Chin was barely hanging on to life. The Toppers were falling apart. And if Zhai lost his duel with Rick on Saturday, the shards the other Toppers possessed might be lost, too—at least until the Obies tracked them down. And once they presented the reassembled ring to their serpent god, who knew what would happen?
Ironically enough, it wasn’t any of these potential calamities that had finally driven Zhai to his father’s study. It was the phone call from Nass. His family had been evicted from their home by a company Zhai’s father and Jack Banfield owned.
Before the search for Raphael started, Zhai had been certain that he wouldn’t like Nass. He remembered watching the Flatliner’s break-dancing routine during his first week of school and thinking that he was just a loudmouthed showoff, a ham who cared about nothing but stirring up trouble and being the center of attention. But when the two had joined forces in the search for Raphael, Zhai had been amazed. When other Flatliners began giving Zhai attitude, it was always Nass who reminded them that they were all working together to find their friend. Nass was truly hilarious, but his jokes were good-natured and inclusive, not the boastful, crass humor Zhai had expected. And often at the end of a long day of searching, Zhai, Maggie, and Nass had been the last three still out looking for Raphael. The more he observed Nass’s work ethic, his leadership, and his generosity, the more he admired him. At times, it felt like they were a two-man gang of their own—the only two people in town fighting for peace, when everyone else was clamoring for a fight.
So when Zhai had learned that Nass’s family had been thrown out of their home, he had decided he could no longer stand by while whatever his father was doing went forward.
Nass said that the Flatliners were sure that the evictions in the Flats had been part of the Obies’ search for the ring. That search was over, yet the evictions continued. Zhai intended to find out why. He also had a few other questions he wanted his father to answer.
Before he could lose his nerve, he reached out and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” his father’s voice sounded from within.
As usual, the moment Cheung had returned home from the Banfields’ party he’d barricaded himself in his study. Zhai entered it now and found his father sitting at his desk, looking at two computer monitors set up side by side. He gazed at them for a moment longer before pulling his eyes away.
“Hello, Zhai,” he said. “What can I do for you this evening?”
The last phrase was one Cheung Shao had picked up many years ago in an English for Business course, and he was particularly fond of it. Zhai would have preferred a less impersonal greeting, but he was in no mood to correct his father—not tonight.
He placed both hands on the desk, palms down. Four puffy, crimson lines on the back of each of his hands showed clearly in the lamplight. If anyone looked closely, they would be able to see the remnants of the defaced markings beneath the scars—black tattoos that had been the Chinese symbols for the word slave. So far, Zhai had kept the scars and the marks beneath them hidden from Cheung Shao. Now he made sure he saw them.
His father stared down at his hands and then cleared his throat. His face was so rigid with tension that his lips barely moved as he asked, “What happened?”
“The Order of the Black Snake,” Zhai said. “They marked me.”
Cheung went suddenly pale. “I . . . I’ve never heard of them—”
“No!” Zhai interrupted. It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice to his father, and it felt like a floodgate opening. A raging torrent of emotion drove him on. “Stop lying to me! The men in derby hats marked me. Your guests, Father. They tattooed my hands and made me their slave. The only way I could be free was to do this to myself—to burn the marks off. Now their leader is in town—and he almost killed Master Chin. I need you to tell me what’s going on, and how to stop them.”
Cheung shook his head. “I . . . I don’t know. I don’t know anything about them.”
“Yes, you do,” Zhai insisted. “They told me that they own you, that they’re in business with you somehow. Just admit that it’s true! Admit you’re working with them!”
Zhai’s father stared back at him, his face as still as a death mask. Filled with a sudden frustration, Zhai slammed both his fists down on the desk. “At least tell me why the evictions in the Flats are still going on. My friend and his family just got thrown out of their apartment—he’s homeless now, because of your company!”
Cheung sniffed and then wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “My work in the Flats is done,” he said calmly. “I’ve sold my share of all those properties to Jack Banfield. He has a ten-year redevelopment plan for the area—outlet malls and condos, mixed-use properties. An office park. If your friend has a problem, he should take it up with Banfield.”
Zhai stared at his father in disbelief. All these years he’d felt so empty, so devoid of emotion, so careful not to let himself feel anything. The only emotion he had allowed in was love for his sister, until he met Kate—and he couldn’t help but love Kate. But now he was feeling something new and unfamiliar, an emotion so powerful that it scared him.
He was truly, genuinely angry.
“You can deny it, Father. You can lie to me. You can lie to Lotus and Li. You can even lie to yourself. But I know you work for the Order. And even now, now that I’m begging you to tell me the truth, to help me, to help my friends—you’re protecting them, the men who branded your son. All the long hours you locked yourself away from me I thought it was your obsession with work, but now I know the real reason behind it. You can pretend it was for us—for your family. You can pretend to be a perfect, moral, disciplined person all you want, but I know the truth.” Zhai’s last words came out in something between a sob and a snarl. “The truth is, Father, you’re nothing but a slave.” And he wheeled around and stormed away.
The moment his hand touched the doorknob, however, he heard a sound from behind him, a pitiful groan, and he turned back to find his father standing now, tears streaming down his face.
“Zhai—my son.” Cheung’s voice trembled. “You’re right.”
Cheung Shao unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his bare chest. There, two familiar Chinese symbols were tattooed—the same symbols that Zhai had on his hands. The magical marks the Obies had used to control him.
And this tattoo was directly over his father’s heart.
“The Order used their mark to control your fists, so you would fight for them,” Cheung said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “But my mark is upon my heart, and it is that which they control. I disobey them, and they will break it by destroying all that I love. And then they will make it stop beating. Now do you understand?”
* * *
With one swipe of his forearm, Raphael wiped the dripping blood and sweat from his brow. Already, his wounds were too numerous to count. So far, he’d defeated an ape-like humanoid, a caveman with a wooden spear, a bronze-age warrior with a sword, a barbarian wearing nothing but a fur tunic and brandishing a wicked, spiked club, and a Comanche warrior with a tomahawk. Now, his eyes flicked back and forth amid the swirling mist, searching for his next adversary. His new enemy’s appearance happened so fast that Raph could barely register who he was.
This combatant wore nothing but a linen loincloth and a steel helmet with a large, brush-like flourish on top. He held a steel short sword in one hand and a spear in the other. Raph glimpsed his chiseled abs and bulging biceps an instant before the man’s sword whistled toward his head, and all he could do was throw himself backward, out of range of the deadly blade. He landed on his back and then kicked his legs over his head and somersaulted over and back up to his feet, just in time to see the next blow coming. Somewhere amid the tumult, it registered in Raphael’s mind who it was he was fighting—one of the most elite warriors of the ancient Greeks, a man who’d likely spent his entire life training for warfare. A Spartan. But Raph was already too exhausted to experience anything like fear. All he did was react to the blade when it whooshed toward him again.
But instead of retreating, Raphael stepped toward the Spartan as he swung, moving inside the radius of the blade and blocking the man’s sword arm with a Bong Sau. He transitioned instantly into a Lap Sau, grabbing the meaty part of the man’s forearm and using his own momentum to jerk him forward, off balance. At the same time, he stepped forward into a stomp kick, snapping the Spartan’s knee sideways. The seasoned warrior didn’t emit a single sound of pain, even as his tendons snapped. He did, however, drop his sword, and Raphael snatched it up and beheaded him with it in one swift motion.
There was not a second to acknowledge his victory. Already, an ancient Chinese warrior was charging him, swinging a guan dao—a weapon that looked like a broadsword affixed to the end of a pole—and it was whirling like a deadly helicopter blade.
Raphael watched the wide arc of the blade speeding toward his legs as if to cut him off at the knees. He managed to leap the blade and then he charged its owner. As his enemy tried to reverse the momentum of the pole to swing it back at Raphael, Raph pinned his elbow against his body with one hand and swung his sword with the other. The blade landed solidly in his enemy’s gut, and Raphael yanked it through.
The Chinese warrior fell to his knees and slumped to the ground, dead.
But already the clatter of armor announced the arrival of Raphael’s next opponents: a trio of Roman legionnaires. They formed up in a miniature phalanx, hiding behind their broad shields as they charged Raphael with their spears.
Reacting fast, Raphael parried two spear tips with his sword, then dove and rolled beneath the wall of shields. He sprang to his feet on the other side, bringing his blade up beneath the armor of the forward most legionnaire as he did. The man groaned and collapsed, but Raph had already pulled his blade free. He spun and beheaded the Roman behind him. Now, only one remained. Twice he feigned at Raphael with his spear and then he threw it directly at Raphael’s heart. There was an instant of paralyzing panic as Raphael watched the deadly projectile speeding toward him, but he deflected it with a Tan Sau movement of his Spartan sword. The legionnaire was now drawing his own sword, but Raphael shot forward with a spring attack. With one hand, he blocked his enemy’s arm so he couldn’t draw his blade, and with the other hand, he swung his own weapon at his opponent’s face and split his head in two.
For the first time in what had to be at least an hour, the battlefield was clear of enemies, and Raphael exhaled, releasing a sound that was half triumph and half exhaustion. His mind gave birth to two thoughts at once.
One was: How many warriors can there be out here? I can’t keep going like this.
And the second: I don’t care how many there are; I’ll never stop fighting until I win.
But there was no time for a third thought or even to take another breath. Already, the thunder of more footsteps came toward him through the heavy fog, and another enemy was upon him.