by Peter Telep
“They’re beautiful aren’t’ they?”
“Yeah, awesome. So?”
“Your father asked me to plant them.”
“Why?”
“That information is too dangerous.”
I groan again. “What’re you guys hiding?”
“I don’t know.”
I gesture for Keane to pull back her immortal, and then I project my father. He doesn’t remember anything about the flowers, and all he wants to talk about is comic books.
So, with our minds jammed with more questions than answers, we pile into the truck’s open flatbed and huddle under piles of blankets. I had Lyrric dig up a couple of scholars and bring them along in small pots, just in case. She thinks I’m crazy. Maybe she’s right—because as she told me, the flowers don’t react when you touch them. They just sit there. However, information on them is dangerous. Argh.
All right, so if our plan to use Joshua doesn’t work, then maybe Punk and Mr. Gurdy can help. Maybe their shape-shifting personas could create a diversion near the edge of the valley. They could keep the snowglass things busy while we get out across the ice.
Yeah, right. I doubt it’ll be that simple.
At the moment, Daliah’s at the wheel, with Lyrric and Mux piled into the front seat. Pym rides in back with us. He and Tommy hold their rifles at the ready.
“I don’t know,” I tell Meeka through a heavy sigh. “None of this feels right.”
“I know,” she says, lowering her voice so Steffanie can’t hear us. “I feel like those things won’t talk to Joshua. I just don’t get why your grandmother sent us here with no plan to get past them.”
Cypress peeks out from beneath the blankets. “Doke, I’m sorry about before. Daliah does want something.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She wants her boy back.”
“I understand. And don’t apologize. It’s good that you’re careful.”
She frowns. “And now I sense something else.”
“A bad feeling.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I assure her. “We’ll be okay.”
She looks at me. “No, we won’t.”
I pull the blankets around my neck and glance away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
We ascend a steep mountain pass with rock faces the color of vanilla ice cream.
The truck gets stuck about half way up, but the grren hop out and project their personas. They drive their shoulders into the tailgate, and, with a sharp jolt, we’re off again, flinching over the bumps and reaching the valley in just one hour and forty-five minutes.
Steffanie climbs out, and we gather behind her, holding our breaths as she’s about to project Joshua’s immortal.
A calm falls over the valley.
My heart thumps in my ears.
Everyone’s looking at each other, because if this doesn’t work—
“This has to work,” I whisper to Meeka.
“I know.”
“Wait! Look!” Lyrric points at the sky, where the Galleons’ ship has appeared. Two new rings coil around the giant face like snakes trying to bite their own tails.
“Steff, jump with me!” Meeka cries. “You too, Doc!”
And all three of us leap into our personas, and, following Meeka’s lead, we arrive in orbit at the healing wreath—
Or at least where it’s supposed to be.
But it’s gone.
Behind us, the rings encircling the mask fluctuate with paisley patterns that make me sick—
Because those patterns are actually the personas of people struggling against the monsters holding them prisoner.
Three masks explode in front of us, their eyes glowing a deep blue, ready to attack.
Meeka screams, “Jump back!”
With a blinding flash and rumble, I return to my body so fast and so violently that I fall back into the snow. Pins and needles rush into my head. For a second, I think I’ll pass out, but then I’m back.
“They took the healing wreath,” Meeka shouts, her voice cracking with disbelief. “They took them all!”
“That’s impossible!” Keane yells.
“We saw it!” she hollers back.
Keane exchanges a terrified look with Hedera—
As thunderclaps rip across the surrounding mountains.
“And here come those bastards,” Tommy mutters.
Hundreds of knights in bulky white armor dive through the gray sky like gleaming missiles.
The air fills with that stench of burning electronics just as the knights burst into masks, their faces blank but throbbing with energy as an occasional jagged line erupts across their cheeks and foreheads.
They hover over the mountaintops, amassing like a bizarre army of heads and eyes pulsing with light. Strands of energy slip from those eyes, shooting left and right, joining them together by the flickering bolts—something I’ve never seen before.
“Stay connected!” Steffanie shouts as we all sprint back for the truck. “A healing wreath of three or more!”
“Who knows if that still works!” I shout.
Connections of three or more used to protect us from being captured by the masks—
However, they just abducted all those pieces of essences that made up the healing wreath, a wreath that was supposed to protect us. That shouldn’t be possible…
Unless the queen robe helped. Maybe Mum’s predictions about how long it would take to recruit the robe were wrong.
More masks join the first wave, rolling their eyes back and firing more bolts that burrow into the snow, probing beneath the surface.
In a matter of seconds, the valley transforms into a spider-web of cracked glass throbbing with deep blue lightning that crackles and burns into the surface.
Snow melts and hisses, thick chutes of steam rise, and that burning smell gets even worse.
A third wave of masks links up with the others, and waves start ripping through the slush, sweeping from end to end. The entire valley looks electrified, with tendrils of energy coiling through the waves.
Beneath this higher-pitched attack comes a steady rumble from the surrounding mountains, as though something even worse and more powerful is coming.
Suddenly, the ground feels like it’s being ripped out from beneath us.
As I near the truck, the heavy tracked vehicle topples away like a toy, crashing onto its side—
And we scatter out of the way.
Keane screams as he loses his grip on Hedera.
She rolls down a newly formed embankment and toward the slushy lake now glowing like a jelly fish.
We leap into our personas and grab her before she reaches the waves.
As we start back to the toppled truck, behind us, another wave tears through the slush, and now the water heaves with thousands of tiny bombs exploding below the surface. The pops and hiss of water rises across the valley. As the massive fountains come down, it sounds like it’s raining.
Meanwhile, incoming bolts grow thicker, snap louder, and give off more steam and smoke.
And then it happens. Weird creatures rise into mist. They’re like white tarantulas, bigger than our truck, and with antennae jutting from their heads and glowing bright green. They screech like the brakes on my old mountain bike. I’m guessing these are the things we call snowglass, and now they’re trapped in webs of energy and carried by thicker, bluer bolts guiding them away.
Hundreds of them twist against the webs, while below, the cold wet ground begins to appear through the puddles.
One after another the snowglass things vanish in balls of light. I can only assume they’re being jumped back to the Galleons’ ship and imprisoned.
Tommy shouts for us to regroup at the truck, and Cypress screams for Punk and Mr. Gurdy to stay close.
I catch Cypress’s attention and yell, “Shields!”
“Yes, Doke!”
She’s about to project them—
When Solomon jumps in front of her, s
hoves her aside, and comes forward with a cigarette stuck in his lips. Draped over his armored shoulders is a golden sixrobe glittering with those quarter-sized hexagons.
“Hello, friends! What a glorious day!” he cries, wearing an exaggerated grin.
Cypress sees the robe and then looks at me.
I mouth the word, “Wait.”
Curtains of fog now rise behind Solomon and completely cover the mountains.
There’s only the masks above us, the bolts humming and snapping down, and this bastard wearing an expression so full of conceit and gloating that I want to bash his face in.
Tommy feels the same way, too.
And I like his style. It’s just a gut reaction—
But he unloads his magazine into Solomon, and so does Pym. We duck and hold our ears as the rounds rattle and crack but are simply absorbed by Solomon’s armor.
Once the rifles fall silent, Solomon removes his cigarette, winks, and releases a long burp. He rubs his belly and says, “You’re the man, Doc. You helped us find this place. Now, you mind if we talk?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
At once, Meeka, Steffanie, and Keane jump back in their personas and surround Solomon.
He turns to face them while shaking his head. “Please, please, if you’d like an autograph, you need to buy a ticket and move to the back of the line.”
“You’re insane,” I tell him.
He snorts. “I prefer the word entertaining. So… anyway… I’m here to give you one more chance.”
“And we’re here to kill you,” Meeka shouts.
“Slowly!” Keane adds.
“That’s right!” Steffanie cries.
“Look, I feel you, I really do, but masks, you know, you really can’t kill us. Pick your words a little more carefully.”
“I’ve never hated anyone more than you,” Keane says.
“I love that,” Solomon answers. “It’s great to be number one. But again, I’m not here to accept your glowing praise. I’m just doing this for my daughter, otherwise you’d already be up in the ship, done deal, it’s all over. Moving on.”
The grren hiss and click their teeth.
Solomon makes a face. His gaze lifts skyward, and he tilts his head toward the grren.
Not a breath later, two masks erupt in front of us, casting a deep shadow over the shoreline as their bolts lash out and seize Punk and Mr. Gurdy.
Cypress screams as the grren roar and claw at the webs rippling across their bodies. She runs toward them, just as the bolts hoist them into the air…
And they vanish.
Cypress whirls around, leans toward Solomon, and raises her palms. Her eyelo ignites—
Just as he jumps away and reappears down the shoreline, jerking the sixrobe from his shoulders and unleashing it with a sharp twist of his arms.
Cypress’s shields launch from her palms and flash open into hexagons.
As her shields grow, Solomon’s sixrobe floats as though in slow motion… and then, in a flash, it shatters, releasing thousands of small hexagons that slash through Cypress’s shields and then erupt in a huge explosion—
That catapults us onto our backs.
I push up on my elbows, and there, in the air where the robe and shields met, is a cloud of falling snow.
Solomon jumps again, standing directly over Cypress and forming a T with his hands. “Hold your fire, my dear, sweet freak of nature.”
Cypress’s face twists in agony as she sits up and remains there, panting, drained.
Tommy storms to his feet and marches over to Solomon. “Let me tell you something, mister, it ain’t the uniform that makes the man—it’s the man that makes the uniform. And all I see is a little runt hiding behind this—” Tommy swats at the armored plate covering Solomon’s shoulder.
“No one’s hiding except you, Tommy. I’ve been trying to figure why it’s taken you so long to join us. But you just let your guard down. And now I know…”
“Y’all can get in my head, but you’ll never get my heart,” Tommy says slowly, as though each word has been doused in gasoline and set on fire so they can burn into Solomon.
But the idiot in white armor just laughs. “I get it, soldier boy. ‘Murica and all that. But your little doctor girl can’t protect you forever.”
Solomon pushes past Tommy and paces before us, adding, “As a matter of fact, the only thing protecting you now is my lovely daughter and her little group of thugs. Everyone else on Flora will be heading back to our ship—and that includes the despers and even the ivies like this poor thing.” He shifts toward Hedera, eyeing her like she’s his next meal. “We can correct all your deficiencies.”
“I guess they couldn’t correct yours,” she says, glaring at him with her face and her persona.
He puts a hand to his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Oh, believe me, my dear, I know just how you feel. Always abnormal. Always second best.”
“Don’t listen to him,” I warn Hedera. “Don’t let him play you. He’s just—”
“Oh, shut up, Doc,” Solomon says. “I told you, no more lies, just facts. All those people and the grren you saved from our ship? That was all for nothing. We’re taking them back—every last one of them. And you know why? Because a healing wreath of three or more will not keep the demons from your door. It won’t do a God damned thing now.”
Solomon glances around like something’s wrong. He looks back over his shoulder, where his cigarette lies burning in the snow. He curses, reaches behind his breast plate, tugs out another one, and lights it with his Zippo.
Meanwhile, behind him, the clouds of steam blanketing the valley begin to thin, and the masks cease fire and float there, as if to admire their work.
“Wait,” Solomon says, studying us. “You still don’t believe me? My daughter and her group can barely protect the seven of you, let alone anyone else.”
With that, he morphs back into a mask, and the lightning lashing out from his eyes targets Daliah, Pym, and Lyrric.
All three stagger backward, swiping at the bolts needling across their chests and locking onto their wreaths.
In the next second, they’re jerked off their feet and glide over us, wailing for help, their eyes shimmering as the energy courses through them.
Solomon dangles them before us, just to prove his point, allowing Daliah’s hand to nearly touch Tommy’s.
Lyrric’s cries hit especially hard as she shouts my name, hyperventilates, reaches toward me for a second—
And then shreds into a billion particles.
Solomon shrinks back into his knightly form.
“You killed them?” Meeka screams.
“Nah.” Solomon shrugs. “Just made it look that way for fun. We’ll plug ‘em into the ship.”
All right, I’m done. Without thinking, I lunge at him with my fist raised high in the air.
He jumps a few feet away, and I fall onto my face. I should’ve attacked him in my persona and taken advantage of sensing his trrune—then I could anticipate his jumps. But no, I just did something stupid. Again.
“Doc, your father had it right. This is a miracle. It’s the next stage of our evolution, and as much as it hurts, we can’t fight it. So do like me now. Make the best of it. Sit back and enjoy the ride… forever.”
“My father was so wrong,” I say through my teeth. “And so are you…”
Solomon puffs on his cigarette. “Look, we’re almost done here on Flora. If you come with me now, it’ll be a real smooth transition. You’ll join the Armadis as a Lord of Galleon, just like we’ve discussed.” His gaze pans the others. “Keane? You’ll become a lord as well. Meeka? Steffanie? Hedera? You’ll join the ranks as Ladies of Galleon. And the mighty warriors here, Tommy and Cypress, you’ll make fantastic additions to our legion of masks.”
“Wow, that sounds like a totally fresh deal,” Keane says. “Sign me up—before I throw up.”
“Yeah, we either get to be slaves or the masters of slaves,” Meeka says. “The future o
f humanity.”
Steffanie spits on Solomon. “Got to hell, bitch.”
Cypress, who’s back on her feet, glares at Solomon and says, “I will join you.”
“No, Cypress!” I holler, struggling to my feet. “We’ll get the grren! You’re not doing this!”
“Don’t worry, Doc, she’s not,” Solomon says with a snort. “She thinks I’ll let down my guard so she can launch another attack. However, meow-meow girl doesn’t realize who she’s dealing with…”
“I know what you are,” Cypress growls. “And I know we will stop you.”
“Then here’s to knowing,” Solomon replies as a shot glass appears in his hand. He downs the blue-colored liquid and tosses the glass over his shoulder. It vanishes before it hits the ground.
Tommy approaches Solomon, stops, raises his shoulders, and stares him down. “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you? God, I feel sorry for your daughter. I know what she’s made of—and it has nothing to do with you.”
Solomon breathes a huge sigh, as though Tommy’s boring him with his threatening tone. “My daughter and her friends are wasting time, and so are you. If you keep holding out, then I can’t guarantee anything.”
“I’ll guarantee you something,” I tell him, exchanging a look with Tommy. “We’re not giving up.”
“After all our conversations, Doc, I thought, okay, maybe this young man is smart enough to come around. But now you got that look on your face, like you’ve still got hope.” He steps closer with smoke leaking from his lips. “Well, now it’s time for me to take that hope… and burn it to the ground.”
Throwing his arms into the air and bearing his teeth like some deranged god, he morphs into a mask whose features are outlined in fire.
And then the blank expression, the one we hate so much, becomes the narrow-eyed, open-mouthed face of a demon burning with rage.
He soars up and away, joining the hundreds of masks now ringing the valley.
Their eyes boil as a new wave of bolts chews into the valley floor and spits out a blizzard of rocks.
Within seconds the storm begins to come down, straight toward us, ready to bury us alive.