by Gwenda Bond
Bronson frowns down at us, giving every indication that he’s as disturbed by my presence as Dad is. “How did you get in?” he demands.
“I brought her,” Oz says.
“Osborne,” Bronson grits his name. “You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t be helping her. You’ve betrayed your vows. I might be willing to show leniency if you take her outside now.”
I rise, as Dad continues to repeat variations on, “No, Kyra, listen, you have to leave. Please. Listen to me.” I move closer to Bronson, forcing him to face me down instead of barking orders at Oz. “Did you really think I’d just stay out in Virginia?” I ask him. “I’m a Locke. And I’m not going anywhere, not because you tell me to.”
He tsks agreement. “You’re right. I should have known better. You’ve proven yourself… resourceful. It’s impressive.” His composure is back in place, a hint of apology in his tone. He’s so nimble at putting on the mask of leader, director, sympathetic grandfather.
“Only you would have the nerve to try and flatter me right now,” I say. “You’re not recruiting me for your team.”
Set growls, and Bronson looks away from me to check the watch at his wrist. “We can talk about this later,” he says.
Before I can dodge, Bronson takes my arm and shoves me at Oz. Who catches me, a reflex, rather than letting me stumble past. The brief interlude allows Set room to block us and the others from access to Dad. His angular body faces the entrance, but his canine head turns so his narrow black eyes are trained on Oz and me.
Bronson reaches down to flip open the case on the floor. In seconds, he has the Solstice Was out of it and in his hand.
All we need is to accomplish a long enough delay. We have to prevent the ritual from taking place until solstice is past and the cavalry shows – if it does.
I press aside my worry about them and dive toward Dad. My hope is to keep Bronson from being able to get to him. But Set raises a pawed hand and, with one quick swipe, sends me flying back. Oz has to catch me again.
Bronson says, “Careful.”
“I will not hurt her unless forced to,” Set answers.
I’m not convinced, but it’s good enough for Bronson.
I’ve barely recovered my breath when Bronson takes the scepter and slashes the forked prongs of it across Dad’s wrist above the ropes. Dad gasps in pain. He manages to speak, but it’s the same refrain. “Kyra, you have to go,” he pleads. “Please.”
“You should have gone for the case, not your father,” Bronson says, like this is some training exercise. “Though I can hardly fault a daughter who cares so much.”
Set growls, but he’s answered by a deep rumble beyond him from Enki. The protest is too late.
Blood wells up from Dad’s wound. A faint trace of light appears around him, as if the brass sun below him is shining. I expected the door to the Afterlife to be dark. I wasn’t wrong. The glow begins to grow a thick border made out of shadows.
The main details of the ritual are simple. It begins with this, the spilling of Dad’s blood, and ends with his life’s blood at the exact moment of solstice, when the scepter is used to kill him. To prevent the door from opening, we have to make sure he lives. That’s it. If only it wasn’t so impossible.
Bronson points the Was scepter toward Dad, and says to Set, “That should give you a taste for Gabrielle’s blood. He is family, by marriage. You bring her to me, and everything will go as we agreed.”
Set lunges at Dad, and his muzzle stops above the wound. His black and pink tongue extends to lap away the seam of blood.
Loki jumps down beside the jackal-headed god. “Not sporting to eat when others are hungry. Or to eat humans at all,” Loki says. Then, “What is this, old friend? It doesn’t seem like a punishment.”
Set speaks, “It is a victory. Anyone who holds otherwise is a fool.”
“Peace,” Loki says. “I like some chaos. But the horned guy isn’t a fan, and he can be a problem.” He extends his thumb over his shoulder.
I look up – and up – at Enki. He’s stepped into the Great Hall, and his horns seem to stretch on forever, almost to the glass far above, as if we are in the abzu. He might be as tall as the world. Past, present, future. The blue scales of his skin glimmer.
“You should not be here, Kyra Locke,” Enki’s voice rings out. “It is not what your father desires. You should go from this place.”
I want to fall to my knees. Or, actually, I want to leave. The urge to do what Enki says is strong. There is a command in the words, but I fight it. “I’m staying right here.”
“Kyra, go,” Dad’s voice is getting fuzzy around the edges. “You can’t be here. This is all for you. To save you.”
“You can ground me, after this. I’m the one doing the saving.” At least, I’m supposed to be. I whisper the most pressing question to Oz. “Where are they?”
“On their way, I hope,” he answers.
I still want to know where Legba is too, but I’m smart enough to know better than to voice that question out loud.
Loki strides over to the line of other gods, all of them spectators now. They are interested, but not ready to get involved. He strokes his red beard. Tezcatlipoca roars with unmistakable displeasure, and Loki says, “Oh, come on. Let’s see how it plays out before we decide to intervene and spoil Set’s surprise.”
Coyote lets out a yip of agreement. Hermes shrugs one perfect shoulder.
Set is far taller than Bronson, even with his half-canine, half-human back bowed. The god barks and it’s like laughter, joyous. Bronson’s not the only one getting exactly what his heart desires.
The headpiece of the Solstice Was shifts, baring its teeth, Bronson’s hand curled beneath the snarl. My grandfather has his eyes closed and repeats the same word over and over. Gabrielle. Gabrielle. Gabrielle. As he chants, the top of the scepter strains toward Set, its true master. The pointed ends are a forked tongue of blades. I picture them slicing into Dad again.
There has to be a way to stop this. I just don’t know what it is.
“Things are about to get messy,” Oz says, as if he’s reading my mind.
“About to?” But I see what he means.
Legba has arrived. He strolls through the entrance and past Enki’s enormous form. Mom is on his arm, her elbow tucked through his like he’s her escort to some unholy prom.
“Hope we didn’t miss the fun part,” Legba says, shark teeth gleaming.
“Kill me,” Mom cries out, kohl-black tears streaming down her cheeks. “Kill me!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Justin has already passed several operatives on horseback on their way to patrol the Mall. While he’s certain Rose wasn’t among them, he has to catch her before she follows. He sprints across the street toward the stables, hastily constructed behind the Adams Library after the Awakening. They have long since been upgraded into the well-appointed structure the Society’s horses and carriages deserve.
He’s not sure Oz should trust him with such an important duty. Bree and Tam’s roles are essential too, but more in terms of the outside world. Justin’s task is the only possible way they will have to counter Bronson and ensure the entire Society doesn’t fall in behind him, unaware of what he’s done. If the secret remains unknown within their ranks, then outside will never matter. No one will ever hear a credible word about any of this.
Justin is aware of each second of limited time ticking away, that every pounding thud of his heart brings the precise instant of solstice closer. The earth and the sun are locked in a dance that creates the potential for the most powerful of magic. It’s no accident that ceremonies and rituals like this have been historically linked to seasonal changes. Justin’s worry, his real and worst worry, is that Oz will sacrifice himself. That’s the kind of person Oz is – if it comes down to him or Kyra, Justin has no doubt what decision will be made.
He does not want to live in a world without Oz. He’s the only person who Justin has ever known who couldn’t care le
ss that he prefers study to swordplay, who offers no judgment about it. Oz acknowledges who Justin is. And he’s counting on Justin not to let him down.
The one thing Justin has going for him is his venerable family name. His mother has always encouraged and supported Rose Greene’s ascension in the ranks. “We have to stick together,” he overheard his mom tell Rose one night at their family home, sitting at the kitchen table with full glasses of dark red wine, and, in response, Rose assuring her, “We do. I’ll watch out for Justin in D.C.” The connection may not be so solid between him and Rose, but he’s hoping her commitment to his mother is.
There are two operatives and a stable hand outside the building, the familiar sun symbol painted above its double doors. “Rose Greene?” Justin asks them, short of breath.
“Slow down,” one of them says. “She’s inside saddling up.”
He would be relieved, but now there’s no turning back. Now he has to convince her.
She’s leading her horse out of the stall when he nearly smashes into her. “Justin?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”
He braces one hand against a stall door, the horse inside nosing over the lip of it to nudge his hand. “I need to talk to you,” he says, ignoring the horse.
“OK,” she says. “Get your breath first.”
He says, “Bronson, he’s in the Great Hall.”
“I know,” she frowns. “I’m sorry about Mr Locke, if that’s what you’re concerned about. But a verdict is a verdict.”
“That’s not why he’s doing this,” Justin says. “Bronson has the Solstice Was. He’s going to use it to kill Mr Locke in the Great Hall.” He lowers his voice, in case anyone else is in the stables. “I believe that’s where one of the doors is, the one to the Afterlife. He’s going to unseal it.”
Rose blinks.
Justin knows how smart she is; he’s read some of her scholarly writing. He also knows that she believes Bronson is only director because he’s a man. Rose is one of the people in line for that position. She might not be one of the five who knows for certain where the door is, but she’s the kind of person who makes it her business to discover information. Knowledge is power, nowhere more than in the Society. It doesn’t take her long to put the situation together. “His wife. That’s what this is about?”
Justin does breathe a sigh of relief now. He nods. “Yes, that’s what we think.”
Rose swings her leg up and onto her horse. “Get your mount,” she says. “We’re going in there. I’ll gather operatives willing to challenge him, but we may need to clear people out of the area afterward, depending on how much of a fight he puts up.” She looks down at him. “Your mother will be proud.”
Justin bites down on his lip to keep from telling her he doesn’t care about that. He only cares that Oz makes it out of the Great Hall in one piece and breathing. Well, and that Bronson doesn’t get away with being willing to burn down the world for his own gain.
Justin heads toward the back of the stable, where his horse, Book, is.
Bree locates her mom amid a line of reporters. Cameramen are set up a few feet apart, the shining lights above their cameras aimed at infinitely poised reporters. Her mom’s red lipstick sets off the white of her smile, as she waves a hand to gesture at the revels behind her. This is the kind of “news” her mom hates covering. It’s not news at all, as far as she’s concerned, just drunken idiots letting their drunken idiot flags fly.
As far as Bree’s concerned, this is both true and beside the point. Her mom doesn’t understand why people would waste a night dancing and chanting and drumming and hooking up with strangers because she finds parties a waste of time, by definition. She prefers political action, high stakes. Which means Bree is about to give her a great gift.
“Mom,” Bree says, when she reaches the camera guy. She infuses it with a sense of urgency. In the near distance, the sacrificial bonfire blazes, surrounded by revelers assembled to watch a stuffed human form burn within it.
Her mom frowns, almost imperceptibly, before it smoothes away. She continues reporting – “As we approach the annual moment when we greet the summer by mimicking the way some of the ancients themselves might have…” – but glances at her.
Bree drags in a breath, and crosses her fingers that her mom will forgive her the interruption. Kyra’s life is at stake. Her mom – and her camera – are needed elsewhere. Once she understands, she’ll get over the fury she’s about to experience at Bree, right?
Right.
So Bree steps into the frame, and says, “Mom, this can’t wait.”
Her mom’s frown returns, not fleeting this time, but full force. She flicks a command to the cameraman, “Stop taping.” She examines Bree. “You appear to have all your limbs, so I can’t imagine why you would interrupt a live report.”
Bree searches for the words. She had them when she came here, but has lost them. They’re shocked from her, like the water of the abzu clogging her lungs. She sees a flash of the sages, and Kyra’s face.
Kyra. This is for Kyra.
“Bree?” Her mom sounds hesitant.
“Mom, I need you to come with me. Kyra’s in trouble.”
“You’re not supposed to be involved with her trouble. I told you,” she says.
“She’s my best friend,” Bree says. “Besides, there’s a story. A big one. A career-making one, maybe.”
“My career is already made.”
Bree shakes her head. To come all this way, to know that Kyra is so close, standing off against her grandfather and gods, and to fail is beyond contemplating.
“Mom, there is a huge story waiting for you up at the Jefferson. But, honestly, what is wrong with you? I am asking you for help. Do you know the last time I asked you for anything?”
Her mom’s red lips part in surprise.
“Don’t bother answering, because I’ll tell you: never. I know what you do is important. I really do. And I don’t resent the times you come in late or that you only remember to ask what I’ve been painting once every few months. Unlike Kyra and her parents, I always knew you loved me, and that’s enough. I understand that this is the way you manage the world, by reporting on it. But you shouldn’t come with me now because I’m promising you news. You should come because I need you to, because I asked. My best friend is in trouble. Not ‘we snuck out’ trouble, ‘she could die’ trouble. Now, are you coming or not?”
Her mother recoils as if Bree just threw ice-cold water on her. In a way, she did.
Bree is seconds from saying never-damn-mind and going to the Jefferson on her own, doing the best she can. But then her mom leaves her spot in the line of reporters. “Where did you say she is?” she asks.
“The Jefferson.” Bree grabs her arm and pulls her along. She feels like she’s floating. This is going to work. They are going to save Kyra’s dad. They have to.
Her mom pauses, and Bree experiences a surge of panic that she’s changed her mind. But it’s only to toss an order over her shoulder at the camera guy. “Come on, Ed,” she barks. “Don’t be so slow.”
Tam didn’t want to split off from Bree, but once she spotted the line of reporters she insisted. They both knew where Tam’s dad would be, and it wasn’t there. And they have to hurry.
Because Kyra has only Oz at her side to square off against a full house of tricksters and William Bronson – who Tam has heard so many whispers and stories about at Skeptics meetings over the years that he believes the man’s capable of anything. It’s hard to wrap his head around how many things have changed in the past several days. How much he has changed.
Normally, he wouldn’t be anywhere near the Mall on solstice night. Not that he’s disdainful of the celebration, but it’s for tourists or the desperately bored. Not for people who live in this city every day. He has never felt any need to be closer to divinity or the universe or whatever it is the people around him are trying to pull in tight. But here he is, tripping down the grass toward the fake sacrifice. That’s where his dad will
be. The Skeptics make it a habit to show a presence there every year. Sometimes Tam’s dad even volunteers to light the torch.
Such an old practice has a resonance that’s accumulated over centuries, his dad says. And his mom laughs and says, no, that’s not it, he just likes lighting things on fire, like any man. Tam wishes his mom was back from Chicago. He wants her here to stand beside him and convince his dad to bring the publicly critical weight of the Skeptics to bear on Bronson over this.
He locates his dad, finally, on the other side of the bonfire. There’s a dummy inside the flames shaped like a human being. Gathered around the flames is a crush of cheering revelers. His father is among the “officials” presiding over the fake sacrifice, but their duties are mostly over. They’re just sticking around to ensure no one tries to leap into the fire, that no one is hurt in the celebration.
His dad doesn’t notice Tam right away, busy chatting, laughing, schmoozing. As soon as he does look over and see Tam, though, that’s over. He excuses himself and comes forward to meet Tam. “What on earth are you doing here?” he asks.
“Can you leave?” Tam asks, and immediately kicks himself for it. He shouldn’t have made it a question. His dad has to come. This is Tam’s assignment and he can’t leave without bringing his dad along. The reality of a situation like the one Kyra’s gotten snared in is that none of them are adults. They need help from the kind of people other adults will listen to and believe.
His dad jerks a thumb back over at the cluster of men. “I have the ear of the police chief. I’d rather not,” he says.
“No,” Tam says, “this is important. It’s about William Bronson.”
“Tam,” his father asks, “where is Kyra?”
“She’s at the Jefferson, and we need to go there too.”