Thief of Souls

by Neal Shusterman

  So intent was Okoya searching for signs of Dillon on the river before him, that he never sensed the presence coming up from behind.

  “Looking for me?”

  Startled, Okoya spun to see Dillon leaning up against the pillar of rock, as if he had appeared out of thin air. Okoya seethed, furious to be caught off-guard, but he quickly took control of the situation.

  “Well,” Okoya beamed, his face stretched into a steely smile. “If it isn’t the river rat! Quite an impressive show you put on. I’d pay to see it again.”

  “It won’t happen again,” said Dillon.

  “No?” Okoya swaggered closer. “Obviously you have no clue of what’s happening to you, do you?”

  Dillon kept silent. He merely stood his ground, impassive, as if none of it fazed him. This was not the state in which Okoya had expected to find Dillon. The boy was far too composed. “Your powers have reached what you might call a ‘critical mass,’ ” Okoya said. “The circle of your influence is exploding beyond your ability to control it. Rivers you touch flow toward higher ground, and the earth beneath your feet drags to life that which was dust. The world you see before you will turn upside down. But there is something that you can do . . . .”

  Okoya sensed Dillon’s resolve begin to collapse. “What?”

  “Let me harness your power!” demanded Okoya. “The strength of my will is the only thing now that can keep it from raging wild.”

  “And let you devour every soul on Earth? Let you destroy all there is to destroy?”

  Okoya laughed, genuinely amused. “You seem to think there is something here worth preserving. But this world is nothing, and the people here are nothing. They’re fodder for greater beings, like me . . . and you.”

  Okoya took a moment to let the words sink into Dillon’s slow human brain. He knew he was offering Dillon little more than a collar and leash, but he made it sound more like a crown and scepter—for the Bringer knew that slavery was a far more powerful thing when the slave was willing.

  “And if I refuse?” asked Dillon.

  “Then I’ll kill you.”

  “The flood couldn’t kill me; what makes you think you can?”

  “Do you think you’re immortal? You power makes you difficult to kill, but not impossible. Anything from a blade through the heart to a well-placed bullet could do the job.” Then Okoya grinned wickedly. “And you know all about well-placed bullets, don’t you?”

  Dillon’s fists clenched, probably wondering how the Bringer knew the circumstances of Deanna’s death. There were many things the Bringer had learned—and Deanna wasn’t Dillon’s only weakness.

  “I can see you’re already willing to throw your life away, so I’ll make the stakes worth your while. If you refuse my enlightened leadership, I will kill you . . . and then I will devour the souls of everyone you brought back from the dead. I’ll seek out everyone whose life you suffered to mend”—Okoya suppressed his smile as he delivered his coup de grace—“and I’ll start with the boy you call Carter.”

  Dillon’s eyes became feverishly angry. “You leave Carter out of this.”

  Okoya began to enjoy this more and more. “He’d become like a younger brother to you, hadn’t he, that feral child rescued from the town you destroyed? He’ll be exceptionally easy to find.”

  “Stay away from him!”

  Okoya raised his hand to silence him. “I’m not finished. That’s what will happen if you refuse. However, if you accept, that’s an entirely different matter.” Okoya tossed his hair, becoming coy, almost feminine. “Let’s talk about Deanna.”

  Dillon looked away, and Okoya could feel Dillon slowly wrapping around his finger.

  “All your powers,” said Okoya, “and you can’t bring her back. You could give her life again, if you could reach her; but there are some places you can’t travel . . . . But I can!”

  Okoya waved his hand, hurling the power of his mind like a ball from his fingertips. The view before them began to ripple like a heat mirage, there was a blast in the air like a sonic boom, and the air pressure instantly changed. The whistle of the wind changed pitch, the rich smell of the Earth took on a bitter odor, and the red canyon light around them grew even redder than before. Beside them, Okoya had torn a hole to the Unworld, its jagged edges rippling with spatial distortion.

  Okoya had chosen his point of entrance well, for there in the distance was the Palace of the Gods—just a few miles through the breach. Dillon stood before it, staring at the mountain palace, transfixed by the possibility.

  “Either the death of everything you care about,” said Okoya, “or Deanna’s life—these are the things that rest in the balance. You choose.”

  Dillon did not take his eyes away from the hole, and Okoya resisted the urge to kick him, just to get him moving. “This is the only chance you’ll ever have. Go get her, Dillon. Bring her back to life.”

  “If I agree,” said Dillon, “you’ll stay away from Carter and anyone else whose life I’ve restored.”

  “I will leave alone anyone you wish me to leave alone. Consider their souls a gift from me.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  Okoya chuckled. “Don’t you know me by now, Dillon? I serve my own interests—and it’s in my best interest to keep you happy.” Okoya slapped Dillon on the shoulder with a firm grip. “In fact, it’s best for me if you’re the happiest man on Earth.”

  Wind drained from the red sands of the Unworld into the Grand Canyon, trying futilely to equalize the pressure between the two dimensions.

  “You have a destiny, Dillon. You tried to fight it by denying your own followers, and still they were drawn to you. You tried to fight it by letting loose the flood, but still the event you tried to undermine only became greater. The pattern of your own future must be clear to you by now, Dillon. Let me help you embrace it.” Okoya could feel the moment Dillon surrendered: his shoulder went limp, his posture slackened, his breathing slowed.

  And finally Dillon leapt through the hole.

  AN INSTANT OF BLACK, numbing cold as he crossed the boundary, then the feel of gritty sand beneath his feet. He didn’t turn back to watch Okoya scrutinizing his actions from the other side of the hole. Instead he marched deeper into the Underworld, until the breach was nothing more than a speck of light behind him.

  Nothing had changed here. Rusting wrecks of cars, planes, and other, less-identifiable vehicles littered the sands, filled with the bones of the dead occupants, slowly turning to sand themselves. He took inventory of the only landmarks he knew, as if recalling them could give him some sense of comfort in this alien place.

  To the left was a great ship, lying crushed on its side, and somewhere beneath it were the remains of Winston’s furred beast. Far to the right was a mound of rotting blubber, its stench weaving in and out of the wind—all that was left of Lourdes’s beast. Beyond that, was the shore where Michael’s parasite of lust had dissolved into the sea. And just before him was the old propeller plane, which had become the tomb of Tory’s hive of disease. The parasites had all been destroyed. All but two—Deanna’s, and his own.

  Dillon continued toward the mountain palace in the distance, letting the steady cadence of his own footfalls hypnotize and numb him. He knew what he had to do—Okoya had left him little choice. The question was, could he go through with it? With each step toward the mountain palace in the distance, his longing grew, and yet he stopped only halfway there. The hole through which he had come was completely out of sight many miles behind him. The urge to get to Deanna was almost overwhelming, but he fought it, forcing himself to stay put. There was little to hear in the dead air around him, but still he waited, keeping his ears attuned to the slightest rustling of the dry briar-weeds around him.

  “I’m here!” he called out to the sky. “I’m waiting for you. Show yourselves!”

  The light in the sunless ice-blue sky never changed, so he had no way to measure the passing of time. He waited there for hours . . . until at last he
heard them.

  It began as a distant whoosh, whoosh, whoosh in the air, chased by the sandy hiss of something slithering across the ground. He turned to see his winged creature of destruction approaching in the distant sky, with the Snake of Fear winding the sands beneath it.

  So they were still here! Still waiting for a great soul to leech upon, for they could not survive outside the Unworld any other way. Dillon knew that these hideous creatures wanted a way out of this place. But he also knew how to keep them from leeching onto him. All he had to do was refuse to invite them in.

  The Spirit of Destruction circled above him like a vulture, perhaps wondering why Dillon had chosen to return, then it flapped its huge wings as it settled before him, creating a dust cloud. The Snake of Fear came in from behind, darting from rock to rock, cautiously making its way closer.

  Dillon had anticipated this moment, just as he had anticipated that Okoya would punch through to the Unworld and bribe him with Deanna. He knew coming here would lead to this confrontation, and although he feared it, it was also something he was counting on. He only hoped Okoya’s arrogance had blinded him to what Dillon was about to do.

  Before him, his creature snarled, its gray face a hellish forgery of Dillon’s own. Its muscles rippled, and it flexed its sharp talons as if it were about to pounce and gouge its way back into him, burrowing into his soul. It said nothing to him at first—it just watched, waiting for some part of Dillon’s soul to open so it could squeeze its way in.

  All I have to do is refuse to let them in, he reminded himself.

  He turned his gaze to the spirit of fear slinking up behind him. “Out where I can see you,” he told it.

  It recoiled, then gave him a wide berth as it saddled up beside the creature it partnered with. Dillon tried to forget how much the terror-serpent’s face resembled Deanna: a twisted image of her with no eyes.

  “He’s come to kill us,” hissed the serpent.

  Dillon showed them his palms. “With what weapons?”

  The Spirit of Destruction regarded Dillon a moment more, trying to divine his purpose here, but Dillon chose not to reveal it just yet. As long as his intentions were secret, he had the upper hand. Finally his parasite spoke. “I’ve missed living in your flesh,” it said. “I’ve missed being a part of you.”

  “You were never a part of me,” Dillon told it. Dillon could sense its hunger for destruction, its hatred of him, and its resentment at having been cast out. Did it forget that it had won their last battle?—that it had ultimately destroyed what mattered most to Dillon: Deanna.

  It unfolded its wings, taking on a looming, imposing stance. “Why are you here?” it demanded.

  “I’m here to give you an escape from this place.”

  His creature did not take its eyes off him, its distrust oozing like a fume in the air.

  “It’s a trick!” hissed the serpent.

  “No trick,” said Dillon.

  His beast folded its wings once more, and although it did not move any closer, a slight turn of its head told Dillon that he had snagged his deadly doppelgänger’s curiosity. “You would bring us back to your world?”

  Dillon took a moment to look toward the palace one last time. Yes, Deanna was there, and yes, his longing for her had been almost insurmountable. But there were things far more pressing now, and so Deanna would have to wait. He knew Deanna would understand.

  “I can offer you a bargain,” said Dillon. “Step inside . . . and we’ll discuss it.” The creature slowly began to advance, the beast of destruction clicking its talons, the serpent of fear salivating at the prospect of freedom.

  All I have to do is refuse to let them in. . . . But instead Dillon bared his own spirit, and gave them permission to crawl deep inside.

  OKOYA DID NOT SEE Dillon returning toward the portal, for he had approached from a different direction. There seemed to be something strange about the boy; there was a look in his eyes—a look that spoke of both insatiable hunger and deep-seated fear. Okoya knew what this meant; it was Dillon’s hunger to rule the world, and his fear of Okoya—the very two things that gave Okoya complete control over the young star-shard. He only hoped the one called Deanna could be as handily yoked as Dillon.

  “Where is she?” said Okoya. “Didn’t you bring her?”

  “She’ll be here soon.” Dillon made no move to step through the breach. He stood just inside the Unworld, as if waiting for an invitation to come in. Which in fact he was.

  “May I . . . come in?” Dillon asked, slowly but precisely.

  “You’ve taken much too long,” Okoya said impatiently. “It’s a simple resurrection. I don’t like my time wasted.”

  “Yes,” said Dillon, “but may I come in?”

  “I hope you don’t plan on being this irritating in the future,” said Okoya. “Yes!” he said. “By all means, please come in!”

  “Thank you.” Dillon leapt through the breach at Okoya, and his momentum took Okoya to the ground. That’s when he saw the truth behind Dillon’s strange expression. Okoya tried to resist, but was too late, because he could already feel a new, unfamiliar hunger burrowing into his gut, and a cold sense of terror constricting his mind.

  AS FOR DILLON, HE couldn’t expel these creatures fast enough.

  He had trekked across the red sands, back to the breach, feeling those things within him leeching on his soul, filling him with that old familiar hunger for destruction, and fear so intense it made every footstep an ordeal. Not even in his darkest of nightmares had he seen himself willfully bringing these creatures back to Earth, but he knew they wouldn’t remain on Earth for long . . . because just on the other side of the portal was something that suited them more than a human star-shard. Perhaps Dillon was a great soul, but Okoya was also a great soul . . . . And Okoya was a soul who could travel!

  As the two parasites gripped on to Okoya, Dillon heaved them out of himself with all the force he could muster, and in his mind’s eye, he saw it happen . . . .

  . . . And he saw, for the first time, Okoya’s true form. It was a creature of light and unlight—both luminous and deadly dark at the same time, as if its own living light was forever feeding the living darkness of its shadow. It had no form beyond the pseudopod tentacles it used to devour life—but now those tentacles flung wildly, as the Spirit of Destruction tore it open with its talons and crawled inside, followed by the Spirit of Fear.

  “I’ve decided this world is worth preserving!” Dillon shouted at Okoya. “But you’re not!” Dillon pushed himself away, and his image of the parasites and the tentacled creature of light faded. Now all he saw was Okoya, lying in the dust, convulsing and writhing in agony, tearing at his own tangling hair.

  “Help me!” screamed Okoya. “Help me, Dillon, help me!” And the Bringer gouged at his own face, knowing—perhaps for the first time in its life—the feeling of terror. Okoya struggled to get to his feet, then fell again, trying to cast out the creatures he had invited into his soul—but not even his will was great enough to cast them out. They had burrowed too deep. They were home.

  He no longer saw Dillon, for Dillon no longer mattered to him. All that mattered was escaping the parasites’ choking grip. Okoya turned, and leapt through the hole, but he didn’t stop there—for just beyond the portal into the Unworld, Okoya punched a second portal—and for the first time, the Unworld resembled to Dillon what he already knew it to be—just a space between the walls of worlds—a buffer zone to protect one world from another.

  Okoya leaped into the Unworld, took a single stride in that space between, then hurled himself through the second breach, into the world he had come from.

  Dillon caught sight of that other world for an instant—a universe full of living light and living shadow. But the moment Okoya crossed back into his own world, both portals sliced shut with the speed and finality of guillotine blades.

  Once the echo of Okoya’s final screams had receded to the far recesses of the canyon, Dillon sat down, and allowed himself seve
ral deep breaths of relief. He had unleashed one evil on another, and now the creatures of fear and destruction were the problem of Okoya and his world. Maybe Dillon couldn’t destroy Okoya—but at least he could give him what he deserved.

  In the quietude of the canyon, Dillon shed a tear for those who had lost their lives to Okoya, for Michael and Tory, whose end could not have been pleasant, and for Deanna.

  “I’m sorry, Deanna,” he said aloud. But this was not the time or the place for Deanna to live again. He didn’t know if that time would ever come; he only knew that he had made the right choice.

  Dillon took a moment to glance up at High Pebble, precariously perched on its finger of rock, threatening to plunge at any moment, as it had for thousands of years. But the boulder wasn’t falling today. As for tomorrow, he thought, well, who can say?

  Around him, the dust began to gather into sand, and the sand began to gather into pebbles, stroked into cohesion by Dillon’s presence. He knew he had to move on.

  It would have been a long trek out of the canyon, but on his way he came across a wild horse that seemed more than happy to bear him up the narrow rocky path.

  26. ALL THINGS UNKNOWN

  * * *

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA. A GRAVEYARD. BY NO MEANS THE OLD-FASHIONED type where stones loomed large and foreboding, but the modern kind. The kind of place with master-planned aisles, and small, shin-high markers on an endless, rolling lawn. Two gravestones side by side marked final resting places of Davis Roland Cole and Judith Martha Cole. Beloved Father and Mother.

  Dillon knelt, and put two sprigs of flowers in the small holders on the stones.

  “I wish I could tell you all the things that have happened since you’ve been gone,” Dillon told them. “You have every reason to be ashamed of me . . . but maybe now . . . maybe now you can be proud of me, too.”

  Nearby, Winston kept a respectful distance. Then, once Dillon had stopped talking, he ventured closer.

  “I never liked graveyards,” Winston said. “They do everything to make ’em user-friendly, but no graveyard’s ever gonna be a friend of mine.”