It lunged as she fired with her mind. A blue flash erupted from the long barrel. Dawn’s spider body, yellow and orange ooze spraying from its underside, staggered backward.
With her free hand, Michelle pumped the gun as she stepped toward the fallen creature that had once been her sister.
Dawn gazed up from the tragic mess she’d been reduced to. Akimbo legs stabbed at the bug-drenched air. Crimson tears leaked from hellfire eyes.
Michelle aimed the barrel of her arm at Dawn’s face. “I love you,” she said.
“You know nothing about—”
A blast rang out, Dawn’s head spattered across the moving stone wall behind her twitching, arachnid body.
The rain stopped.
Then Michelle heard her name called by Reggie. In the direction of his voice, she ran down the ever-shifting hallway. On both sides of her, hideously deformed humanoids slithered out of the walls, eyes burning like hot coals.
Still running, she turned her arm into a machine gun and sprayed the hallway with lead, mowing down attackers before they could get on their feet.
Ahead of her, three half-cat, half-reptile things dropped from above and roared. She opened fire on them, but their speed was staggering, making them hard targets. The entire hallway tilted sideways, the creatures scaling the walls on agile limbs. Michelle stumbled and fell. Her rapid-fire aim flew wild. One of the animals pinned her gun-arm beneath the bone-crunching thump of a meaty paw.
The animal’s fecund, feral breath in her face, its allies circling close by, Michelle turned her arm into a sword. She swiped the blade upward, blood spraying from the stump of the cat-serpent’s limb. The beast roared and hissed, Michelle springing upright. She swung the blade, slicing the wounded animal’s head free of its body, then spun to face the tandem onslaught of its brethren.
She ran toward them, kicking her feet forward and skidding across the rough floor a split second after they leaped. Making her arm a flame thrower, the animals above her, she sent a wide swath of fire upward, scorching the air. Then she rolled away as the blazing creatures thudded against the floor, flailing futilely as their predacious cries echoed through the hallway.
Back on her feet, Michelle ran.
Reggie shouted again, but his voice sounded further away than it had before. She stopped, looked around, and decided to quit applying logic to a batshit world. From both ends of the hallway, various creatures—a nightmare mash-up of Noah’s Ark—advanced.
And Michelle did what she realized she should have sooner. She turned her arm back into an arm and concentrated on Reggie’s voice.
“Michelle!” he cried.
A bright flash of light, then Michelle was with him.
Strapped upside-down on a stone slab, Reggie smiled. She rushed to him, unfastened his bonds, and helped him to his feet.
“I felt you here,” he said. “I knew you’d come.”
“You helped me once,” she said. “Turnabout’s fair play. Now let’s get out of here.”
“My dad’s here. We have to save him first.”
“Where?”
Reggie shook his head glumly. “I don’t know how things work here. I heard him screaming nearby, but that stopped a while ago.”
“We have to go, Reggie. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t leave without him.”
She took his hands in hers. “He wants us to win, Reggie.”
“I know.”
“We can’t fight forever, and The Game isn’t worth playing again and again.”
“Michelle…”
“Yes, Reggie.”
“I trust you.”
Deeply touched by his words, she replied, “I won’t let you down.”
“I know.”
“But I’m a fugitive in The Old World—can’t go back there, not yet.”
“I know a place.”
The silence of the chamber was suddenly breached, predatory grunts, cries, and growls quickly closing in. She took his hands. “Concentrate on that place,” she implored. “We’ll go together.”
Reggie closed his eyes, and Michelle’s bracelet showered them in light.
The next thing she knew they were standing on a beautiful, silent beach. She hugged herself against chills, gazing at the sun, certain that nightmares would soon end.
—Chapter Fifteen—
1
Michelle needed time to process everything that had happened. But clock hands quickened, and she couldn’t shake the knowledge that she, a living entity, didn’t belong in dead space. Each second brought greater coldness, even as she took refuge in a happy place, on the porch of her grandparent’s house.
She made everything exactly as Pa had, and she came here alone.
One eye admired the perfect, color-rich composition, the other turned inward, watching events unfold in The Old World.
She saw the delivery of Kyle and Stacy Moon’s daughter; witnessed, for the first time, the beautiful agony of childbirth.
Pain wasn’t always crippling, she realized. It could also be cleansing.
Stacy holds her child close, Kyle kneeling by the hospital bed. Both smile down at the pink and perfect newborn, swaddled in a rose-print blanket.
Michelle recognized the blanket, made from the fabric of Fiona Sicuro’s favorite dress. She smiled.
“Welcome to the world, Fiona,” Kyle says. He gently strokes his daughter’s cheek, tears welling in his eyes.
“She’s perfect,” Stacy says.
Michelle nodded agreement and clutched her bracelet tighter. This moment, however warm and wonderful, wasn’t hers.
She shifted focus to the small mining town of Passage, West Virginia.
Snow flurries twirl as laborers toil.
One of the men wipes his brow and looks into the gray sky. “Fucking rush jobs,” he says.
“Work is work,” another man bellows. “Now get back to it!”
She then sped to the home of Marlene Gore, where Detective McCluskey delivered crushing news.
Marlene breaks down at his feet. “Why would Michelle kill my little girl?” she wails. “Why?”
Pain washes McCluskey’s face of emotion. “I don’t know,” he says. “I really don’t.”
As much as she didn’t belong in The Land of Light, Michelle knew she had no place in The Old World. Though she was powerful beyond her comprehension, she didn’t know how to exonerate herself. Nor was she interested in such a struggle. The way people remembered her was irrelevant. Still, she was a girl without a home, her toe finally over the line, fighting for what was right. Though sad, she couldn’t help but feel pride. Few victories, after all, came without sacrifice. Knowing there were people worth fighting for, people who had a home for the moment, was all she needed. It wasn’t about her. Not anymore.
Lastly, she looked in on Miles Winslow.
And the fear planted behind his eyes gave her hope.
2
Reggie appeared on the porch and said, “I never knew this place existed.”
Michelle turned her attention from The Old World and delivered a pensive smile. “Does any of this really exist?”
“I don’t know, but it sure is beautiful.”
“Set decoration,” she said. “Nothing more. But…it helps.”
“Memories are more than adornments.”
Michelle’s expression soured. “Much more. They can be twisted and exploited. They haunt. They torture. And memories can be romanticized to such a degree that we lose sight of the future.”
Reggie nodded. “But the past is who we are, and memories last,” he said. “Without them, what value would life have? Moments are fleeting and inescapable; recollections are payoff. That we can remember things differently than they happened is as merciful as it is dangerous.”
“Truth is more terrifying than death,” Michelle whispered.
“But much harder to find,” Reggie replied. He sat next to her on the swing and admired the scenery for a moment. “I’m not terrified in this place. I could s
pend lifetimes here.”
“But it was never really like this, Reggie. This is fantasy—a diversion. Not a genuine memory.”
“What difference does it make? We’re here, aren’t we?”
Michelle started twirling the bracelet on her wrist. Again and again, scales spun like a wheel of fortune, stopping each time in the same spot: the serpent’s tail in its mouth. “Ceaseless cycles,” she said.
“What else do we know?”
“I might know more, Reggie.”
“Anything you can share?”
“No. It wouldn’t be right to shine you on with false hope.”
He turned to her and smiled. “I think you just did.”
“Great—now you can hold it against me if things don’t work out.”
“Hope is never false,” Reggie said.
Michelle returned his smile and said, “You didn’t just come here to give me a pep talk, did you?”
“You know me so well.”
Michelle put her hand on his shoulder.
“This is the first time I felt your touch,” he said.
“That’s ridiculous—we’ve hugged before.”
“But I couldn’t feel it.”
Michelle embraced him. And he returned the gesture.
“I love you,” Reggie said.
“I love you, too.”
“But I have to hit you with a harsh dose of truth,” he said.
“Hit me.”
“It’s time.”
A door appeared, just as it had for Pa. This time, however, she knew it was for her.
—Chapter Sixteen—
1
Indian summer was in full glory, the sun shining and the temperatures unseasonably warm.
Miles Winslow stepped into the Anon building. He put on a brave face and wished for storm clouds to match his mood, but none were in sight.
He’d spent the last two days in a funk, not showering or shaving. Phone messages and emails had piled up, most of them from the other board members, all of them unreturned. His younger self had regarded his behavior with a stern frown.
“You have to level with them,” Young Miles had said.
“They won’t understand.”
“Then you’ll have to level them.”
So here he was, in the elevator, dressed in his finest Armani suit, a Muzak version of “Bad Moon Rising” playing. He watched levels on a digital readout ascend, and the pain in his back, which had troubled him greatly the last few days, escalated with each passing floor. His brave face didn’t waver. He couldn’t let them see his worry. He was their rock, their foundation.
Inside, he was crumbling.
He got off the elevator on the top floor of the building, the executive level, and flashed a smile to the receptionist.
“Good morning, Mr. Winslow.”
There was nothing good about it, of course, but he returned her smile and said, “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Hope it stays this way.”
He wanted to strangle her. “Can we get some coffee in the boardroom?”
“Coffee’s set up, as well as bagels and doughnuts. Mr. Lampe and Mr. Sanders are already in there waiting.”
They were early. Winslow could hardly blame them. If there was one thing he understood, it was anxiety. For a moment his posture drooped and his expression darkened.
“Is anything wrong?” the receptionist asked.
“No, I’m fine.” He straightened quickly and forced the smile back onto his face. He was struck by a fuzzy memory of fucking the girl behind the desk, but he couldn’t place her name. He needed to clear his head before facing the Board. Weakness was a piss-poor ally.
Her name hit him in a flash. He pointed at her. “Are there any messages for me, Jessica?”
She chuckled. And his urge to kill her intensified. “More than I can count,” she said. “Do you want them?”
He shook his head and walked away from her without a reply. Where was his younger self? Always with him when he wasn’t needed. Why was he missing now? He wanted to know the answer and didn’t. He already knew too much, little of it good.
He held onto a modicum of comfort. Phase Three, at least, was drawing to an end, and he’d enjoy being young again. But how long would it last this time?
Winslow trudged into the boardroom, Sanders and Lampe regarding him with eyes that were sunken in hollows. He nodded to each of them as he made his way to the kitchenette, where he poured a cup of coffee. He mixed in a liberal amount of cream, started stirring—
“For fuck’s sake, Win,” snapped Joe Lampe. “Talk to us!”
Winslow turned and took a sip of coffee, struggling to appear casual. “Can one of you gentlemen close the blinds? Sun’s giving me a headache this morning.”
“Close ’em yourself,” Tom Sanders said. “You’re already up.”
Insubordination was a trait Winslow had never seen in Sanders.
“Stop stalling,” Lampe said. “Cut to the fucking chase!”
Winslow put down his cup and started to pull the blinds shut. His back turned to his men, the room darkening, he said, “I have some good news and some bad news.” He then moved to the table and took his seat at the head. “I guess you fellahs want the bad news first, huh?”
“We don’t want bad news,” Sanders said.
“Hear me out,” said Winslow. “I’m sure once I put everything in perspective—”
“Out with it!” demanded Lampe, hands and head shaking.
“The girl is off the grid.”
“What does that mean?” Sanders asked, a stupefied expression sweeping his face.
“Means he doesn’t know where she is,” Lampe answered. He glared at Winslow. “That is what you’re saying, right, Win?”
Winslow nodded.
“She’s wanted for two murders,” Sanders said. “Can’t we leverage that?”
“Maybe,” Winslow said weakly. “We’re certainly making every effort. She can’t hide forever.”
“Where’s her sister?” Lampe asked.
“We don’t know.”
Lampe slapped the hardwood table with both palms and stood. Now his entire body trembled as he braced himself against a wall, head lowered.
“What does that mean?” Sanders asked.
“It means we’re fucked,” Lampe moaned.
“No,” Winslow insisted. “All it means is The Game is still in motion, which brings me to my good news.”
Lampe spun to face Winslow and sneered, looking like he would collapse at any second.
“Have a seat, Joe,” Winslow said softly. “Come on. We’ve been friends for years.”
Lampe begrudgingly yanked a chair away from the table and sat, crossing his arms.
“Phase Three is complete,” Winslow said. “Our new facility in Passage will be finished in two weeks. I have a press conference scheduled later this afternoon. I’ll announce our move at the conference.” He shifted glances between each of the men, looking for signs of placation. He came up empty with Lampe. But Sanders seemed to soften.
“So we’ll be young soon?” Sanders said.
“Yes,” Winslow said. “I’m sorry that our return on investment isn’t as high as we’d anticipated, but we will reap rewards for our efforts. I can’t thank you men enough for your patience and understanding.”
Sanders turned to Lampe and said, “Hey, Joe, that’s something, right? You said we wouldn’t get anything, but it looks like we’ll make out all right.”
With extraordinary precision, Joe Lampe bolted from his seat and tackled Tom Sanders. The leather office chair that Sanders had been sitting in clattered against the glass of the tall windows, ruffling the vertical blinds, spastic rays of light scoring the room.
Winslow stood. “Stop it, Joe!” he commanded.
But Joe Lampe wasn’t listening. Hands tight around Sanders’ throat, he pummeled the man’s head into the floor. Again. And again. And—
“I said stop it!”
He didn’t s
top until life drained from Tom Sanders’ eyes. His body shaking once more, Lampe rose to his feet and said, “Thompson was right.”
Winslow, without words, slumped into his seat and closed his eyes. The Board, made up of men with impressive resumes, gave him the appearance of respectability. They handled the press, dealt with the difficult world, and protected him. Now he would have to soldier on without them, unless…
Can Joe Lampe be salvaged?
He opened his eyes and saw his younger self in the corner of the room, shaking his head in response.
Hysterically, Lampe paced, muttering “Thompson was right” over and over. He’d snapped, was no longer a useful asset. The time had come to terminate, and this would be the hardest one of all. Winslow liked Lampe. But business was business.
Winslow got up and strode across the room. He tried to make himself into something more deadly, digging deep for change, but it didn’t work. Bereft of power though filled with frustration, he balled his fist and punched Lampe, who staggered backward and toppled to the carpet. Then he snatched a Polycom unit from the table and bashed it against Lampe’s skull.
Lampe’s eyes rolled back and his breathing became ragged.
Winslow cast his attention on his younger self and asked, “What’s going on? Why can’t I change?”
Young Miles didn’t respond. Instead, he went through a change of his own. Characteristics—eyes, nose, ears, hair—were rapidly swallowed by his flesh, until he was nothing but featureless skin in a suit. Color was next to go, Young Miles darkening to a gray silhouette. A shadow. Seconds later, he was gone altogether.
In the center of the room, atop the conference table, a bright ball of light erupted. Miles staggered backward, shielding his eyes.
Michelle Breedlove stepped out of the nimbus.
2
The moment she entered the room, Michelle knew her powers were gone. Just an eighteen-year-old girl once more; and that realization flooded her with fear. Looking around the room, she was glad to find only Winslow, looking distraught and off guard, two prone forms sprawled at his feet. She leaped from the table and spun to face him.
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