by Ryan Dalton
“Why that name?”
A hint of a smile touched John’s lips. “Before all this began, I read A Princess of Mars, where a normal man suddenly finds himself in a strange new world. His name was John Carter.” He shrugged. “It felt right at the time.”
Malcolm considered this. “I don’t blame you for using a cover. But why not go to your old friends?”
“A century has passed. I couldn’t know if they would believe me, or even remember me.” His voice grew heavy. “The truth—I was afraid to try, and I needed to forget everything that happened to us. So I homeschooled to avoid Miranda, grew my hair out. Tried to hide from everything.”
“That’s why you were nervous at our house. I thought you were scared to meet Dad. But you weren’t, were you?”
“No. I feared seeing Grace again.”
Malcolm thought he understood now. “You just wanted a normal life, but it started happening all over again.”
John winced. “I tried to help, but . . . it felt like going back to war. To my shame, I fell apart. Remember, for me, it happened only a year ago.”
“It sounds like post-traumatic stress to me,” Valentine said, affection and protectiveness pouring off her in waves. “And you’ve been dealing with it alone.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, John,” Malcolm assured him. “You came back right when we needed you.”
John smiled in gratitude. “Thank you. This past year, I have felt like a real John Carter. I found a home, loyal friends.” He reached back to grasp Valentine’s hand. “And I met a princess.”
The truck’s cabin fell quiet again. Malcolm sank back, lulled by the hum of the road and the comfort of his sister’s presence. Outside the window, he watched a burned and broken part of their town slip by. In the golden light of the sun, it didn’t look so bad.
“We’ll get it back, Mal,” Valentine said. “The town, I mean. We’re going to bring it all back. Only it’ll be better.”
Malcolm knew she was right. With a contented sigh, he turned to look through the windshield. As Emmett’s Bluff slipped into the distance, a wide, green country opened before them. Their friends were out there somewhere, healing from their own battles and waiting to be reunited.
They didn’t have long to wait.
Chapter 32
Six Months Later
Snow was falling.
For the fourth night in a row, it danced down to blanket the countryside. The deeper cold had delayed for months, likely due to Lucius’s tampering with the sky, and now winter frolicked in the air.
Malcolm switched off the porch light and shut the front door. A full moon illuminated his path across the street. Valentine waited for him at the edge of the crater, where a house with no doors had once stood.
“Did you bring it?” she asked.
“Yeah. I thought it’d be hard to choose, but . . . it’s the right one.”
“Good.” Unzipping her coat, she tugged at the collar of her sweater. “This thing Dad bought me is itchy.”
Malcolm glanced at her throat and smiled. Catching his look, she blushed. The silver pendant was gone from her neck.
“It was time,” she said. “It’s still in a box, but . . . I think she’d have wanted me to let it go.”
“I’m happy for you, Val,” Malcolm said with admiration. He stared down into the crater, considering the course of the past year. “You were right before, you know. About me. I did stop living. If you never move, you never have to feel.” He shook his head with regret. “Those days are over. I’m starting to feel like myself again.”
“Good. I need my brother back.” She grinned, then her brow furrowed. “Now we can figure out what’s happening to us.”
Malcolm raised his eyebrows.
She gave him a level look. “You know what I’m talking about. The weird sensations we felt, those . . . shifts. And the things we did back there—me with the watch, you with the time machine.”
Malcolm flashed back to his battle with Lucius. “I think, somehow, we bent the energy of Time to our will. Ever since, I don’t know how, but . . . I feel something I didn’t before. I can’t see or explain it, but I know it’s out there. Sometimes, I can almost touch it.” He locked eyes with his twin. “What is happening to us?”
“We’ll have to figure it out together. Later, though. For tonight . . .” She gestured at the crater.
Malcolm nodded. “Later.”
Footsteps crunched through the snow behind them. Shadows approached from the sidewalk, resolving into five people. John shook Malcolm’s hand warmly, then gathered Valentine in a tight embrace. Grinning, she kissed him and caressed his cheek.
Malcolm greeted the others in turn—Oma Grace, Clive, Fred, and Winter. After all these months, their casts were gone and their wounds had healed. The deeper scars of battle would only fade with time and care. Still, they were smiling. Happy. And every step of the way, they would be there for each other. His heart warmed as he watched them.
“I think it’s time,” Clive said softly.
The companions stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the snow-dusted crater. Below them, jagged bones of the old house jutted through layers of earth. Clive glanced at Malcolm and nodded.
Drawing in a deep breath, Malcolm gathered himself. He paused, not knowing what to say. Nothing flowery, he reminded himself. Just the truth.
“How do I describe someone like Walter?” he began. “He was gruff. Reclusive. A lot of things annoyed him, especially teenagers. The second time we met, he pointed a gun at me.”
The others chuckled.
“That sounds like Buster,” Oma Grace said with a bittersweet smile.
Malcolm laughed too. For the first time he could think of Walter without feeling overwhelming sadness. Tell them.
“I’ve thought about him a lot these past months. About my last moments with him. They used to make me sad. They still make me sad, but they make me glad, too. Glad to have known him, to have learned who he really was. In that last moment, I wish I could’ve said what he meant to me. I wish he were here now, so I could see that look on his face again. The look that said he knew he’d saved us all.
“More than anything, though, I just miss my friend. I think I’ll miss him for a very long time.” He looked up at the sky, blinking back tears. “He wouldn’t have changed it, though, so I won’t wish for it either. To protect his friends was all he ever wanted.”
Reaching into his pocket, Malcolm withdrew Walter’s Silver Star and held it over the edge. “You had more honor than ten men, Walter. We’ll miss you every day.”
The others quietly said their own goodbyes. When they finished, Malcolm let the medal fall into the crater. With a faint thump, it disappeared into the snow and buried itself among the remains of the house.
A moment later, Winter stepped forward and tossed in what looked like a small piece of computer circuitry. Malcolm shot her questioning glance.
“We lost other friends, too,” she said, her eyes glistening. “I couldn’t find Patrick. If he’s still out there somewhere, I just hope—I have to believe he’s okay.”
John and Fred put their arms around her, offering comfort.
“Then we’ll believe it, too,” Fred said.
Together, all the companions gazed into the abyss. Long moments of silence passed in remembrance of what they’d all shared. What they’d all suffered. And what they’d all overcome.
“So,” Fred said eventually. “Same time next year?”
They agreed without hesitation. Then, knowing that Walter would roll his eyes at them for standing in the cold to talk about him, Malcolm turned back toward the street. The others followed suit.
A BOOM shook the air behind them. The ground rumbled and a rushing wind gusted from inside the crater. Whipping around, Malcolm and the group faced forward again.
A second BOOM vibrated through their bones. In his mind Malcolm felt something intangible shift and then rip. Inside the crater, the air split open and bright light poured out of the tear. Something solid shot out and dropped to the ground, and the light disappeared in a blink.
Returning to the edge, Malcolm peered into the crater. He caught sight of a small mound that hadn’t been there before. The mound shifted and groaned.
“Someone’s in there!” Valentine exclaimed.
Malcolm, Valentine, and John slid down the embankment and scrambled across the dips and rises in the crater. Dodging past remnants of the house that jutted from the ground, they halted above the figure of a tall, armored man covered in thick frost. In a ten-foot circle around his body, the snow had frozen into a solid sheet of ice.
“What on earth . . . ?”
Hesitantly, Malcolm removed the man’s helmet. Shoulder-length black hair spilled out to frame a young face, lean and olive-complexioned. His right temple was heavily bruised, and blood seeped from a jagged gash at the edge of his scalp.
“He’s young,” John observed. “Eighteen, maybe.”
“Mal, look at this.” Valentine touched the plates of ornate silver armor, etched with fine scrollwork in a flowing, wavy pattern. Underneath was a layer of chainmail—a mesh finer than any Malcolm had seen.
“Where’s this guy from?” she said.
“Where?” John gave them a significant look. “Or when?”
“I’ve never seen armor like this before,” Malcolm said. He leaned in to get a closer look. “Whoa, this guy’s hurt!”
A wide gash split the armor’s right flank. Valentine parted the layers, and they winced in sympathy. A deep slash had cleaved the man’s side open, leaving a seared red wound. Oddly, while the rest of him was covered in frost, the wound radiated heat.
“Call an ambulance!” Malcolm shouted.
Fred pulled out his phone. “On it.”
“Should we move him?” Valentine asked.
“It could hurt him,” John said.
The armored man’s chest heaved with guttural hacking and his eyes fluttered open. Hollow and glazed over, they locked onto Malcolm with wild terror. He lunged forward and grabbed onto Malcolm’s arms.
“He’s coming! He’s—” he cut off with a grimace and sucked in a breath. “The Black Tempest is coming! No stopping him! You’ve all got to run. Run!”
Spasming, he slumped to the ground and his eyes rolled back. His breathing grew more labored, and the small bit of color in his cheeks drained away.
“Does he mean Lucius?” Valentine’s eyes darted around warily.
Malcolm shook his head vehemently. “No way. Lucius is out of the game. We made sure of it this time.” He glanced up at the sky. “He’s talking about someone else. Maybe someone wherever he’s from.”
Malcolm forced himself to relax and slide out of arm’s reach. The instinct to defend himself with force had not yet faded, and he didn’t want to hurt an already-injured man. Sitting in the snow, he tried to digest what he’d just heard. Valentine’s brow was furrowed, and he knew she was pondering the same thing.
“A year ago, I’d have said he’s delirious and doesn’t know what he’s saying,” she said. “But now?”
“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “And we’ve seen too much to think he’s just crazy.”
“So, if it’s true, who’s coming and why should we run?”
“I don’t know. But if it is true,” he looked pointedly at Valentine. “We’d better get ready.”
Acknowledgements
Given my fear of the acknowledgements page—specifically, of forgetting to include someone important and spending the rest of my life in a shame spiral—I’d like to start by thanking every single person who has ever lived, or will ever live, on planet Earth. Seriously, I couldn’t have done it without you.
Okay, now to get more specific . . .
No book comes to life because of one person, and I’m ridiculously grateful to those who were there along the way. To the beta-readers who showed me how to make this book even better, thank you for all that you taught me—Jolene Perry, Brenda Drake, Steph Funk, Darci Cole, Elena Jacob, Cortney Pearson, and any others whom I may have forgotten. Thanks to Laura Register for helping with Valentine’s point of view, to Amy Shaw for schooling me in French grammar, and to Trent Stokes for guidance on military procedure and nuclear power plants. Huge thanks to Morgan Shamy, one of my oldest friends in the writer community. Your tireless support, advice, cheerleading, and determination have often been the fuel that kept me writing through trials and discouragement. This book belongs to you, too.
To the Parking Lot Confessional—Amy K. Nichols, Amy McLane, and Stephen Green—thanks for always helping to replenish my creative energy, and for the ridiculously fun time podcasting and geeking out about books.
To everyone at SCBWI who made an unpublished but eager writer feel welcome and part of such a great group of creators, thank you Jodi Moore, Evelyn Ehrlich, Kim Sabatini, Jeff Cox, Christa Desir, Karen Akins, Allie Brennan, and Liz Briggs. Thanks to Austin Aslan, Tatum Flynn, Ryne Pearson, and Ellie Ann Soderstrom for cheering me on, and for welcoming me into the fold when this book was announced. And thank you, Jonathan Simon of Lightning Octopus, for spotlighting my work long before I was ever published.
Thank you so much to the musicians who helped me find the soul of this story. Murray Gold’s score from Doctor Who helped me define the tone. James Newton Howard’s Unbreakable soundtrack helped Winter and Fred defeat the villainous Ulrich. Jeremy Messersmith’s earnest ballads set the mood for Valentine’s first kiss. John Powell’s triumphant Hancock score gave power to Malcolm’s final fight and Walter’s sacrifice. Finally, Ryan Bingham’s theme to Crazy Heart gave depth and a breath of hope to Walter’s funeral.
Thank you Magneto, Professor Moriarty, and the Operative, for teaching me how to write my favorite kind of villain; and Green Arrow, for constantly going toe-to-toe with villains who are stronger than you because it’s the right thing to do. Thank you, Joss Whedon, for teaching me how to balance humor and tension. Thank you, Batman 1989, for creating the moment that told me I’d be a geek for life.
To my awesome superhero editor Zach T Power, to executive editor and amazing cover artist Christopher Loke, and to the whole team at Jolly Fish Press, thank you so much for believing in this book and giving it a home, for being such incredible partners and making this whole experience the dream that I’d hoped it would be.
To my parents and brother—even though most people only experience my weird humor and random ideas in little pieces—you’ve had a front row seat for my entire life. Thank you for not only tolerating them but allowing them to flourish, for believing eight-year-old Ryan when he declared that someday he would publish books, for letting me conjure up years’ worth of crazy stories and silly jokes on the path from dreamer to author, and for just going with it when I pull the car over to jot down an idea before I lose it. I’m here in this moment because of all those times and a thousand more just like them. Thank you forever.
Finally, thanks to YOU, the person holding this book. You’re a part of the dream now, and I hope you’ll come with me all the way to the end.
This book will self-destruct in five seconds . . . but the gratitude will remain.
RYAN DALTON either wears a cape and fights crime abroad, or he writes about it from his red captain’s chair at home. Perhaps he’s a superhero that’s trained with the world’s finest heroes, or he’s a lifelong geek who sings well and makes a decent dish of spaghetti. It’s also plausible that he’s been plotting to take over the world since he was ten, or that he’s since been writing novels to stir the heart and spark the imagination. Either way, he lives in an invisible spaceship that’s currently hovering above Phoenix, Arizona.
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