It was the left eye—just so we have things straight here. The other eye was just as terrible.
“Ahhhhh!” Mack cried.
And the others made similar remarks.
They landed in a heap—actually two heaps—on the Pale Queen’s cheek, just beneath her eye. And when Mack stood up, he was staring into an eye the size of a hot-air balloon.
The pupil, that black pit filled with cursed souls, rotated down, down, down to see them.
It adjusted, trying to find a focus point, obviously not quite sure what it was looking at.
“Grab hands!” Mack cried.
This time there was no surge of power. There was power, but oh, it was so much weaker. Too weak.
“Give it all you’ve got!” Mack shouted desperately. “For everyone you love! For the whole human race! Now!”
The pupil had focused.
It focused and then, suddenly, it widened out in sheer terror. Because she knew then what was happening. She knew who they were.
Desperately she swung her hand upward.
She roared in fury.
“Stib-ma albi kandar!”
A shudder, like another earthquake, went through her vast body. Mack could feel it.
“Don’t let go!” Mack cried. “Give it all you’ve got!”
The Twelve held hands and focused with all their power, willing the Vargran spell to work.
A second shudder, more severe than the first. And this time the Pale Queen’s roar carried a note of desperation.
Her hand swatted at them. It was like someone had dropped a building out of the sky, but they were shielded by being in a depression. Even so, the wind alone, and the kinetic force of the impact, knocked them down.
“Die!” Mack cried.
A third shudder . . . and when Mack looked up, he saw a light going out in that terrible eye.
The Pale Queen sagged downward.
And then, a terror none of them could have imagined. From her dimming pupil flew ghostly figures, wraiths. Most must have once been human, and they ranged from children to old men and women: the souls that the Pale Queen had taken over her long and awful life.
The wraiths flew like bats exiting a cave. And as they emerged from the Pale Queen’s shadow, they glittered in the sunlight and disappeared.
The Pale Queen fell forward like a giant tree and smashed her face into the Transamerica Pyramid. The impact tore all of the Magnifica loose. They flew through the air, spinning and screaming, and then smashed against the steep glass slope of the building.
The dragons raced to catch them. And they succeeded.
With supernatural speed, the dragons swept them up as they fell.
Until.
Standing atop an adjacent skyscraper stood a beautiful girl with piercing green eyes and flaming red hair.
From her outstretched hand came a jet of flame that passed inches from the eyes of Fabulous Dragon. He flinched and missed the final rescue.
And Dietmar fell.
He fell four hundred feet and smashed into a parked car.
Risky met Mack’s horrified gaze and laughed.
“Eleven, now,” Risky cried, and was gone. “Eleven!”
Thirty
The Pale Queen’s body lay sprawled across downtown San Francisco. Her torso was mostly squeezed between the buildings on either side of Montgomery Street. Her arms stretched up Columbus and down Washington Street.
It was going to be one heck of a mess to clean up. Mack thought he and the others might come back in a few days, if they survived, and help with that.
But right now they still had work to do.
The mayor of San Francisco was there as Dietmar’s body was being taken away.
“You saved the city,” the mayor said.
“We saved the world,” Jarrah said pointedly.
“We didn’t save Dietmar,” Mack said grimly. Mack had never really liked Dietmar—which may be why he felt so guilty.
Dietmar was not the only one to die that day. Evil takes a toll. There’s a price to be paid for freedom. It could have been much worse. They all knew it could have been much worse. But all Mack could think about now was Dietmar.
Camaro grabbed his shoulders. “Listen to me, Mack. This isn’t over. She has plans.”
“Who?”
“The redhead; who do you think? She’s got the golem under her control. She thinks she’s the new Pale Queen. She’s not done yet, which means, neither are you!”
“But we’re only eleven now,” Mack said dully.
“No,” Camaro said. “Eleven plus Stefan, plus all the bullies, plus—most important—the golem.”
“But you said Risky has him under control.”
“Yeah, well, I think something has changed with the golem. I think maybe he’s not so easy to control.”
Mack shook his head. “You don’t understand, Camaro. He’s just a sort of mindless robot made out of mud and clay. He is whatever he’s programmed to be.”
Camaro looked fierce then. “And I say he’s more than that. Anyway, you want to take down the redhead? She’ll be with the golem: back in Sedona.”
The mayor was still nearby, directing police and firefighters. The city was in a mess. There were surviving Tong Elves and Skirrit still running around the streets.
It was a very tough day in the life of the mayor, and he would have many, many more tough days ahead.
But he had not forgotten Mack, and when Mack tugged at his sleeve and said, “We need a favor,” the mayor was quick to respond.
Phone calls were made, and thirty minutes later the Magnificent Twelve . . . Eleven . . . were on board a military jet racing toward Sedona.
Thirty-one
SEDONA
It’s about 626 miles, give or take, from San Francisco to Sedona. The flight lasted about an hour and a half.
Sedona’s airport is basically just a landing strip. It’s not exactly JFK or O’Hare or one of those big, busy places.
The jet landed, and because it was an air force jet there was no Jetway, just a ramp, and they were let off on the hot tarmac under an Arizona sun.
Eleven twelve-year-olds with the enlightened puissance. Jarrah, Xiao, Sylvie, Charlie, Rodrigo, Valin, Ilya, Hillary, José, Camaro, and Mack.
And one fifteen-year-old.
They were not all friends. Some of them had only shown up hours before. Some, like Mack and Valin, had been enemies. But now they were all united by a common experience: they had all faced the Pale Queen.
And they had all seen Dietmar fall to his death.
And they knew who was responsible.
The mayor of San Francisco and the United States Air Force had arranged for a truck to meet them as they got off the plane. The truck drove them into Sedona.
“So, this is your home,” Jarrah said. “Not so different from mine, really. Dry and hot.”
“It was my home,” Mack said. “I don’t know if it still is.”
He was changed, our Mack. And he felt it.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
Mack thought about it. “Back to where it all started. Richard Gere Middle School.”47
“Richard Gere?” Hillary asked. “Seriously?”
Camaro shot the girl a dirty look. “Don’t be dissing our school.”
“It’s Sedona,” Mack said. “It was either Richard Gere or Lisa Simpson.”
He nodded at Camaro and held out a fist. She bumped it. Stefan laid his big hand over theirs. It was a moment of Sedona solidarity.
Stefan said, “We take down the redhead.”
“We do,” Mack agreed.
“And the golem?” Camaro couldn’t keep a tremulousness from her voice.
“It’s not his fault,” Mack said. “He’s innocent. But so was Dietmar. And sometimes life is not fair.”
Suddenly a dozen cars and a few pickup trucks went careening past heading away from the town. They were driven by Tong Elves and Skirrit. In each car were people. Men, women, and children. Many h
ad their pets with them and some had tied bikes to the roof racks.
This mystery would puzzle Mack for some time until later investigations would turn up Risky’s last furious order to her minions: drive the people out of town.48
The truck pulled to a stop and they climbed out. Mack gasped. The school was a pile of broken slabs of stucco and jagged wooden beams and shattered Spanish tile.
In all honesty, neither Mack nor Camaro nor Stefan was entirely distraught at the destruction. So long as no one was hurt, it was . . . Well, what kid hasn’t fantasized about their school being destroyed?
But then Mack heard the sounds of destruction coming from downtown. Sedona’s downtown was mostly just a single street, and in some ways it looked like an old-fashioned cowboy town. The buildings were not tall, nor were they cramped, nor were they all flashy with lots of lights. This was not New York or Los Angeles. Sedona was a small, squat western town overawed by bleak desertscape mountains. It was a place of cozy bed-and-breakfasts rather than big resort hotels. There were far more spiritual healers than there were stockbrokers, but there were also people with real businesses: restaurants, shops, dentist’s offices, hardware stores—useful things.
Some of those useful things were now smoking ruins. An antiques-and-collectibles shop had been crushed beneath a FedEx truck. A tiny café that served all variations on avocado was burning. The cheese shop emitted a horrible smell—it alone was undamaged.
Down the street Mack saw the Destroyer. As Mack watched, the Destroyer snapped a light pole, then ripped one of those big metal mailboxes up off the ground and bit off the top as if he expected to find candy inside. Letters and cards scattered, caught by the breeze.
That was a federal crime.
It made Mack angry. He’d already seen San Francisco devastated. He did not want to see the same in his own hometown.
“Everyone with me,” he commanded.
Yes: commanded. Because this was not the same old, diffident Mack. This was a Mack who had faced down the world’s greatest evil. This was a Mack who had seen a friend fall to his death. He wasn’t playing anymore. He was deadly serious.
The eleven, plus Stefan, began to march down the street toward the Destroyer, who carried on happily smashing things while still clutching the faded-blue steel mailbox.
“Destroyer!” Mack called when they were within range.
The Destroyer stopped.
Slowly he turned.
He no longer looked anything like Mack. He was ten feet tall, a monster of dead eyes and blank visage.
“Urrgh?” the Destroyer said.
“It’s me, Golem. Or Destroyer. Whatever you are now. It’s me, Mack MacAvoy. And I’m ordering you to stop.”
The Destroyer stared at him. Probably. It’s hard to tell where a blank-eyed creature is staring.
Then it began to advance on Mack.
“Get ready,” Mack said to his friends. “We need a spell to destroy him.”
“What?” Camaro cried. “What do you mean, destroy him? That’s the golem!”
“We have no choice,” Mack said.
“No. No, no, no,” Camaro said. “No one is destroying the golem. That’s what she wants you to do.”
Mack knew who Camaro meant by “she.”49 It made him hesitate, but only for a moment. “It has to be stopped. It has to be destroyed.”
“It’s not an it,” Camaro pleaded. “It’s a he. He is a real person underneath all that.”
“No, he is just a golem,” Valin argued.
Camaro got right in Valin’s face. Valin wasn’t scared easily. But he took a step back. A big step.
“You don’t know him,” Camaro raged. “I know him. I can get him to stop.”
By this point the Destroyer was practically on them.
Mack nodded at Camaro. “You can try.” To everyone else he said, “Hold hands and be ready.”
“Golem,” Camaro pleaded. “Listen to me. I know you’re still in there some—”
With startling speed, the Destroyer lunged. With a single powerful hand he brought the torn mailbox up high, then brought it down with shocking suddenness.
Right on Mack.
Or more accurately, right around Mack. It was like someone slamming a glass down to trap a bug. Except that this glass was small compared to the “bug.” The mailbox’s bottom slammed down on Mack’s head. He fell to his knees. His head swam and for a few moments he was completely unconscious.
The Destroyer scooped one big hand beneath the open part of the mailbox, lifted the whole thing in the air, and squeezed.
With a sound like a slow-motion car accident, the metal shards of the opening began to close. For the Destroyer it was like crushing aluminum foil. In seconds Mack was completely trapped, enclosed, inside a steel box.
The Destroyer tossed the metal prison aside. It landed hard and Mack cried out.
Stefan threw himself at the box, trying to pry it open, knowing what would happen.
Mack’s consciousness came back on a wave of dread more awful than anything he had ever felt before. His hands battered at the steel cage. His eyes searched for light. His knees were pressed up against his chest, he could barely breathe, and the Arizona sun was already raising the temperature to more than a hundred degrees.
Mack had twenty-one known phobias. But the greatest of these, the master phobia, the one phobia that outdid all the others, was claustrophobia.
Claustrophobia. The fear of being locked in a small space, unable to get out, unable to breathe, unable . . .
Those outside heard a soul-wrenching wail. It was a sound that started as a cry but rose and rose and with each second became more panicky.
They heard Mack pounding, kicking, battering his hands and knees and feet to pulp trying to smash his way out.
“Don’t panic, don’t panic,” Stefan cried as even his great strength failed to budge the steel.
A single car, a convertible, drove down the street, going at a leisurely pace. Taking its time. Just the one vehicle.
The top was down, and it was easy to see the red hair flowing in the breeze.
Risky was coming to claim her prize.
Thirty-two
STILL SEDONA
She stepped out wearing a lovely summer dress—gold and green (the green matched her eyes) and patterns in black (to match her heart).
“Well, isn’t this a nice little get-together?” Risky said pleasantly.
Mack was screaming incoherently in the trap at her feet. The Destroyer loomed behind her, ready to do her bidding.
Stefan ran straight at her. Risky looked annoyed, flicked her finger, and sent Stefan flying backward to crash beside Camaro Angianelli.
Risky knelt and with a puckish smile that showed off her excellent teeth tapped on the mailbox. “Is that you, Mack?”
Mack stopped screaming.
“It must be getting stuffy in there,” Risky said. “Are you getting enough air?”
“You know he’s not, you evil witch,” Jarrah snapped.
“Oh, I know,” Risky said, and her smile was feral now. “He’s more frightened than he’s ever been in his life. He can’t control himself. He’s like a mad beast in there.”
“Let him go!” Sylvie demanded.
“Hmm. Short, aren’t you?” Risky said, giving Sylvie the once-over. She stood all the way up, rested one foot on the mailbox, and said, “There are only ten of you now that Mack is . . . preoccupied. And ten of you don’t have the power to defeat me. Especially not without your leader. No, without Mack you have less than half the power you have with him. Did you know that? He’s the greatest of you. You’re all just . . . accessories.”
“I’ll accessorize you!” Camaro yelled, and lashed out at Risky with a kick. She actually managed to kick Risky in the knee.
“Ow! That hurt!” Risky yelled angrily. “Destroyer! Take her! Then . . . take her apart!”
The Destroyer moved swiftly to grab Camaro around the waist. Camaro didn’t scream or struggle.
“A concert?” Charlie asked.
“A consort. Consort. A partner. A henchman. A partner in crime. A—”
“Boyfriend?” Xiao asked incredulously.
The Destroyer drew Camaro close. It tightened its grip around her waist, and Camaro let out an involuntary cry. She put her arms around the monster’s neck and seemed to be trying to choke him back. Useless, of course: you can’t choke a Destroyer. You just can’t.
“Long ago I found someone,” Risky said wistfully. “His name was Gil. He worshipped me, and I did not eat him or dismember him or set him on fire. No, we were close, me and Gil.”
Risky sighed heavily. “But Mother scared him off. He was devastated by losing me. He went on to be a warrior and ended up starring in some epic, but the point is he never got over me. He loved me. I could see it in his eyes. Just as I can see it in Mack’s eyes when he looks at me.”
“You are insane,” Sylvie said matter-of-factly as the Destroyer drew Camaro ever closer, probably preparing to bite her head off.
Risky sat on the mailbox and crossed her legs and looked very smug and in charge. “Join me, Mack. Swear true faith and allegiance to me, and I will set you free.”
Mack was no longer screaming. But he was gasping for breath, panting and wheezing in abject terror.
“The next step is digging a hole and burying you,” Risky said. She winked at the others as if this was a flirtatious little joke.
“Nooooooooo!” Mack cried.
“Join me, Mack,” Risky crooned. “Join me.”
“Noooooo. N-n-n-n-no. No. NO. I. WILL. NOT!”
Stefan had been readying another futile charge. He stopped dead in his tracks.
Stefan had been with Mack from the beginning. No one knew more about Mack’s phobias. No one had seen more of Mack’s meltdowns. No one except for Mack himself had a clearer understanding of the sheer terror Mack was suffering.
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