“Enough to regret the way you beat me?”
He took another step closer. “A Vector moves forward always,” he told her. “No grudges, no regrets.” And then he reached his hand forward to her. “Come. We celebrate your success.” With his other hand he casually reached into the shadows of his coat.
What happened next came in a single fluid motion, like a step from a ballet. Something dark and shiny slid out of his coat, gripped in his right hand. Eight other hands reached from behind, taking him down to the ground. A bullet pierced the eye of one of Lourdes’s minions, and although he fell limp, there was another behind to wrench the gun from the Vector’s hand. In an instant the Vector was under a tackle of Lourdes’s puppets, and with a single thought she had them rip off his coat, revealing a second gun and a knife. Further exploration revealed another knife strapped to his leg. Lourdes stood over him while he struggled beneath the hands and bodies of her minions. “Is this how we celebrate my success?”
“You misunderstand!” he shouted. “Please! It was for them!” He pointed across the fire to Michael and Tory, still unconscious on the dark pebbles of the beach. “I come to kill them—not you!”
“Come on, say it like you mean it.” By now all of his weapons had been stripped from him, along with his jacket and shirt. Each weapon was trained on him now by her minions, poised at his head, his chest, his throat. “I suppose if I kill you, you’ll just slip into another host.”
“Believe me. Your two friends are the enemy—not you.” He let out a pained little laugh. “What purpose is killing you for? None. No, we let you live, and you keep to help us.”
Keep helping them? Would they have her do that? Was that the true definition of hell?
“You rule all people.” The handsome Vector tempted. “Control them. We want this from you.”
“The Queen of Cattle.”
He looked up at her quizzically. “I do not know this expression.”
“Never mind.” She took a step back, and loosened the hands that held him. He pulled free, but his weapons were gone, passed back through the crowd. He made no move to attack her, but she knew better than to turn her back.
“Your two friends—they must die—you know this. Let me do it now.”
“I’ll kill them,” she said. “They deserve to be put out of their misery by one of their own kind.”
He considered this and finally nodded acceptance. Then he looked her over, showing some amount of admiration. “This host has desire for you,” he said puffing out his chest. “Now we celebrate. Just you and me. This I will enjoy.”
“Get out of here.” With a wave of her hand her crowd advanced, engulfing him, pushing him back, layer by layer away from her inner circle. Then she pulled the mob even tighter together so that he could not squeeze between them again. Once she was sure he had been pushed completely out, she went around the fire to Michael. Dear, sweet Michael, who had once told her he loved her. Who had stroked her cheek, and looked into her eyes when no one else would as she lay on a stone floor, too fat to move. It was that lie that had destroyed her, even before the Vectors snared her on their line.
She knew what she had to do.
She found a smooth stone about the size of a skull, so heavy she needed two hands to lift it. Then she knelt beside Michael, and raised the stone above his head.
I’ll do this quickly.
Michael’s eyes fluttered open then closed.
Quickly before I change my mind.
And she brought the heavy stone down with all the force in her soul.
36. Sudden Death
It was deep into the night when Dillon awoke. The tinker was nowhere to be found, and as Dillon looked out over the bay, he could see the moon had traversed the entire sky. There were voices—many voices coming from the shore below. He tried to see through the window what the commotion was about, but saw only the dim shapes of the tinker’s mechanical graveyard.
Winston had fallen asleep as well, having crawled up onto the floor displacing the dogs from their mat—which was a better spot than Dillon’s, which was nothing but a wobbly chair and a window sill for his head. It was a far cry from Hearst Castle or the plush trappings of Elon Tessic. So now they were lying with dogs. Dillon couldn’t decide whether there was something wrong with this, or if such humility was a good thing; something to dilute their own innate arrogance that had always gotten them into such trouble. He woke Winston, and they left.
Outside, the sound of voices was a dense, white noise of people murmuring their excitement and confusion.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a Greek Chorus,” Winston said.
The shoreline was packed, and for each one who made it to shore, there were hundreds still stranded on boats in the middle of the bay—so many boats you could hardly see the water.
“Do we really want to go down there?” Winston asked.
“I can’t see as we’ve got a choice.”
They descended the steep slope toward the crowded shore, unnoticed, unquestioned as they moved through the crowds. It was clear to Dillon what was happening here. “Lourdes let them go . . .”
“She must have broken off syntaxis with Tory and Michael.”
Dillon nodded. When she broke off, her field would have gotten smaller. These were the ones who now fell outside of her influence. It would make sense—she only needed an expanded field long enough to get them here. And now, with the bay clotted with vessels, no matter how free these people were, they had nowhere to go. They went from being Lourdes’s captives, to captives of the island itself, and they’d all be here at dawn, when the Vectors tore open the sky.
Of those who had reached the shore, some had climbed up the hillside, toward homes, or the lights of towns around the bay, but most just lingered on the shoreline, sharing with each other the experience of a journey they did not understand.
“The poor bastards—they think they’re waiting for something wonderful. A second coming. The opening of heaven.” Dillon could see the way they trembled with wonder and anticipation. No! Dillon wanted to shout. Get out of this place! Something’s going to happen alright, but it’s not wonderful. It’s more horrible than death—more terrible than the flames of hell. You will see a glow of heaven, you will think it’s something glorious—but they will devour you, for they are the only beings in creation that can kill an immortal soul. He wanted to tell them this, but what good would it do? If they knew, where would they run?
“I feel Lourdes,” Winston said.
Dillon pointed. “Somewhere across the bay.” But there was another feeling as well; a dark, visceral stirring. Intuitively, his eyes turned toward the source; a square arch atop a nearby cliff, lit an eerie green and red against the dark sky.
“The Vectors are up there,” Winston said. “That’s where it will begin.”
“If the Vectors are there, then they’re not with Lourdes.” Dillon scoured the shoreline until spotting a small powerboat, and made his way toward it.
“What have you got in mind?”
“I won’t believe Lourdes has turned completely to their side.”
“Believe it,” Winston said. “Even before they got here, she had rotted all the way through. Remember, she threw me overboard.”
“She’s got Michael and Tory—we’ve got no choice but to face her.”
“And if she kills you?”
“If it comes to that,” said Dillon, “I’ll kill her first.” He tried to sound decisive, but still his voice quivered with the thought. They didn’t have Deanna—if Lourdes was too far gone to be brought back—if he was forced to kill her to save himself, and to save Tory and Michael, what would happen then? Would four Shards be able to hold back the sky?
“You go,” Winston said. “I want to get a better look at that arch. Maybe get a closer feel of the Vectors.”
“If they catch you—"
“They won’t.”
“We need to stay together!”
“We need to know what w
e’re up against!” Winston said. “The Vectors have got to have a weakness—I know I’ll be able to sense it.”
Dillon knew better than to argue with Winston once his mind was made up. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour,” Dillon told him. “Be careful.” Then he started the small motor boat, and took to the water, taking a long look at Winston before he left. Like every parting glance he gave these days, it was laden with finality, as if he might never see Winston again.
* * *
Dillon wove the small motorboat in and out of the logjam of vessels filling the bay. The sea was calm now, the air hung still. Dead air. It was more troubling than a windy sky, because it meant Michael’s emotional affect was completely flat. Has he contained himself? No, that was too much to hope for. More than likely he had fallen into a dead sleep the way Dillon had, too exhausted to emote at all.
As he made his way between the overloaded crafts, the sounds of the crowds began to soften until all the voices came from behind him. He looked to the nearby vessels to see that they were just as crowded, but no one moved. People just stood, or sat poised, as if waiting their turn in a halted conversation. He knew he had crossed into Lourdes’s field of control. Bit by bit he crossed to the far side of the bay, where a huge mob pressed inward—an atmosphere of flesh around a hidden singularity. He left the motorboat, and tried to force his way through, but the crowd was defiantly dense. In the end, he had to hurl himself upon their shoulders and stumble over them, until finally tumbling head first into the circle at the center. When he looked up, he saw Lourdes standing there, holding a rock in her fist, ready to throw it at him.
The anger in her eyes almost made him look away, but he didn’t. She was surprised, even shocked, to see him, but in the end she regained her composure, and put the rock down.
“I thought you were the Vector,” she said.
He looked around him. A fire burned at the center, casting shifting shadows on the stone faces of her army.
“Why couldn’t I sense you?” she asked. “Did you lose your powers?”
To answer her, he took a glance at the fire, and it began to burn blue, pulling in warmth, rather than releasing it; unburning. “You knew I had to crash this party.”
“The Vectors knew you’d come. I hear they have something very special planned for you. Where’s Winston?”
“Parking the car.” There were two figures on the other side of the fire, but Dillon couldn’t see them clearly.
“Go on,” Lourdes said, deep bitterness in her voice. “They’re waiting for you.”
Dillon rounded the fire to find Michael and Tory. They sat up, groggy and weak. Drained. On their hands were handcuffs, but the chains had been broken.
“The rocks here are soft,” Lourdes said. “I almost couldn’t break the chains.”
He thought for a moment that Lourdes might have taken a turn for the better, but the icy expression on her face said otherwise.
“It’s good to see you alive,” Dillon said.
Michael slowly looked up. “Are we?”
Dillon turned to Lourdes again. He had played this moment over in his head a hundred times, so sure he would know the words that would snap her spirit into place, but now, standing before her he had no idea what to say. For all her posturing and poisoned barbs, her actions here spoke louder than her words. She could have killed Michael and Tory, but had not. If that meant there was some hope veiled within her, Dillon had to find a way to access it. He had to plant a seed; a single thought that could take root and attack the battlements she had built around herself. He had once shattered a mighty dam with the tiniest of blows. Surely he could find a way to break through to Lourdes.
“It’s not too late,” was all he could offer her at first, and of course she laughed.
“It was too late the moment I was born,” she told him. “That is, if you believe in fate, and I know you do.”
“Do you remember,” asked Dillon, “when we first met? I mean really met? It was right after you had killed your parasite. You were still fat, but losing pounds by the minute.”
“What’s your point?”
“I had just helped my parasite of destruction kill thousands of people. In the end, it tricked me into killing Deanna. I thought I’d die from the weight—that there was no redemption for me—but I was wrong. I made it back. So can you.”
She was silent for a moment, mulling the memory.
“These creatures are going to destroy everything human,” Dillon said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Name me one thing human worth preserving.”
“That’s not you speaking, Lourdes. You think they’ve turned you into some kind of demon, but it’s not true. It’s just another lie.”
The frown on her mouth twisted. “I’ve killed people for pleasure— not because I was tormented by a parasite, but because I chose to. I’ve even helped the Vectors devour souls.”
“Did you let them feed you?”
Lourdes faltered. “What?”
“Did you let them feed you on souls?”
Lourdes turned away, and hurled another log on the fire. “What difference does that make?”
“You didn’t, did you? Because you’re not like them. You’ll never be. You’re still one of us, and we want you back.”
Lourdes looked to Michael and Tory. “I think they can tell you how likely that is.”
Michael shook his head. “It’s no use.”
“Then why did you set them free?”
Lourdes shrugged, as if it were nothing. “I’d rather see you all die fighting. More interesting that way.”
“When the Vectors find out you released them, they’ll kill you.”
“They need me to help herd and process the world’s masses.” But Dillon could hear doubt in her voice; doubt that they would truly need her and perhaps a deeper doubt of her own capacity to stomach such a terrible mission. Dillon focused his thoughts on this minute crack in her facade, searching for a seed to sow in that fine fault of doubt. He took a step closer. “Will you watch?” he asked. “When we make our stand, will you at least be a witness to what we tried to do?”
“It’s SRO,” she said, “But I plan to have a front-row seat.” She waved her hand, and her circle parted to the left and right, revealing two miles of empty shoreline. This part of the bay, all the way to the arch on the cliff, was under her stringent control. No one was coming ashore without the captain’s leave.
Michael and Tory struggled to their feet, helping each other up, gaining strength from each other as they touched. Lourdes watched them, disgusted. “Go before I change my mind and have you torn to pieces instead.”
Dillon concentrated for just an instant more, and finally found the words he needed to plant.
“I’m not surprised this is what you’ve become,” he told her in a precise, matter-of-fact tone that bordered on pity. “You always were the weakest of us.”
It appeared to have no effect; she was as recalcitrant as when Dillon arrived.
“Don’t slam the door on your way out.”
Dillon turned from her and left with Michael and Tory. The mob closed the gap once they were outside of Lourdes’s little world.
Dawn was already hinting on the horizon. He had told Winston an hour, but how long had it been? It had taken at least that long to cross the bay. He looked at the uneven shoreline. It would be slow going, but the powerboat would be even slower, winding through the crowded bay. “There’s an arch on a hillside a few miles away. That’s where we have to go, and we have to move.”
“And what do we do when we get there?” Tory asked. “Look for this ‘infection’?”
“I don’t think we’ll need to look for it,” Dillon told her. “It’ll be about as easy to miss as a hydrogen bomb.”
A cold and unforgiving breeze began to blow, pulled by Michael’s fear. Michael gripped his arms. “I can already feel the nuclear winter.”
But Dillon was shivering even before he felt the wi
nd.
* * *
Winston kept low as he made his way through the shrubs around the stone arch. This close, he could feel the scar slicing through it, filling him with a discordant energy that felt like ants crawling through the hollow of his spine. Feeling the Vectors so close did not give him a sense of their weaknesses—only their imperviousness.
Something lay in the dust a dozen yards away and with no sign of the Vectors he stepped out into the open to take a closer look. It was a twisted body in the dust, left in complete disregard.
He turned to leave, but then a voice spoke out.
“Winston Pell.” It was a child’s voice, with a slight Latin accent. “Lourdes has told us so much about you.”
He turned to see two figures step out of a doorway of a small church. He turned to run, but a third one stepped out from behind the arch.
“You give people back their lost arms and legs,” the boy said. “For you, things grow; people grow in any way you want. But not today. You see, nothing grows in this rocky soil.”
The largest of the three Vectors rushed him, tackled him, and effortlessly wrenched him into a choke hold as if he had been trained to do just that. Although Winston couldn’t see his face, there was a smell—a stringent and musky cologne. He knew that smell. Why did he know that smell? Then it struck him that this same aroma had been aboard Tessic’s plane that had first brought him to Poland. It had been aboard the helicopter that spirited them to Majdanek and Auschwitz. How could that be?
The Vector pushed Winston through the door of the church, and as Winston finally made the connection, he discovered that the sickly sweet aroma wasn’t the only thing that had been dragged here from Poland. The Vectors had brought a prisoner.
* * *
It had taken many deaths to transport the Temporal Vector to Poland. The first had been the Old Man. Once freed from that host body, the Vector had leapt from the boat to the Italian mainland, where he covered as much distance as he could before inhabiting a woman, who slept while he devoured her soul. He quickly realized that traveling within a physical body would not grant him the speed he needed, but neither could he travel discorporate for more than a few miles at a time. His solution, he felt, was most inventive. He forced this new body to drown itself, and it freed him for another leap. He found his range to be about twenty miles as a discorporate spirit, before having to take another host, which he immediately forced to take its own life. In this way he hopscotched across Europe, leaving a trail of death behind him, until reaching northern Poland just as Dillon and Winston stepped into Birkenau.
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