“Potions,” said Janet, pulling a bunch of test tubes filled with variously colored fluids from the file cabinet.
“And here’s a gadget,” Clancy announced. A peculiar oven sat on a shelf in the closet. On its hearth was a chantment, a wallet Astrid remembered making as a child.
“What you suppose it’s for?” Janet said.
“It finds lost change.”
“The oven, Astrid, not the wallet.”
“Laptop battery’s still got a trace of a charge,” Igme reported.
Will opened a book. “Anyone read Latin?”
“Me.” Clancy settled a pair of glasses on his nose, flipping pages. “You burn chantments in it and collect the ash here, in the flask. Vitagua ash … purificado, it’s called. It’s part of their magic cocktails.”
“All magic’s bad except our magic.” Astrid flicked a tube with a nail. “Hypocrites. They use liquid magic, same as us.”
“This is why they tried to burn the unreal,” Will said. “To make magic with the ash. I wondered why they stopped trying to control enchantment and moved on to destroying it. But destruction is control.”
“Gotcha!” Igme was going through the desk—he waved an index card with a list of passwords in front of the laptop. He typed furiously. “Okay, Glade was searching the Web for references to magic. He had a bunch of fake identities.…”
Astrid peered over his shoulder. “Sahara and I chatted with someone who claimed she was on the run with chantments. Marlowe. She taught us the cantation for heat draws.”
Igme nodded. “Yes, here’s the message they sent.”
“They?”
“Looks like Lucius Landon was helping—he and Chief Glade were your Marlowe. Why would they teach you how to draw heat?”
“To build trust,” Will said.
“Yeah, and they were tracking us. The drops in temperature are conspicuous. Storms make the news. Where it’s coldest, where the fog’s thickest … that’s where the chantment was used.”
“Devious bastards,” Igme said. “There was a chanter in Nevada, in the mid-nineties, looks like they got him that way.”
Astrid nodded. Sahara’s followers had found a cache of chantments in Nevada; she had assumed there must have been a chanter there.
The search continued. Janet found a file cabinet full of news clippings: pieces about UFO sightings and unexplained occurrences, stapled to articles about people who had died in fires. More chantment users, probably.
It was easy to piece together how the Fyremen worked. Some odd event would attract their attention. They would trace the culprit, kill them, then steal their chantments to burn for potions.
Recited prayers seemed to be the key to making the potions. They mixed purificado with other ingredients, praying over the formulations for hours, even days.
“Putting in the energy up front,” Janet said. “No casting without cost.”
Astrid turned to Clancy. “Is there anything in those books on the curse?”
He flipped pages. “Curses, let’s see. Ruination, Befouling. There’s mention of a Lady of Lies and Atlas—”
“An atlas of where?”
“The mythical Atlas … Boss, it’s not a cookbook.”
“Sorry.”
He kept scanning. “Near as I can tell, what Sahara told you’s right—there’s a bunch of guys somewhere reciting this ‘Befoulment.’ Been at it nonstop since the 1300s.”
“The Befoulment’s the curse that makes the contaminated insane?” Astrid asked.
“And Frog Princes them,” Clancy affirmed. “Looks like it’s just a matter of finding the circle and shutting ’em up.”
“Oh, is that all?” Janet said.
“Where are you going?” Mark, in the Octagon, spoke to the ringer Astrid had installed in the bank vault.
“Pardon?”
“Astrid Prime—your body—you’re on the move.”
She had been about to duck out on the celebration in the middle of Bigtop, which was getting wilder by the minute.
“I need a little air, Mark.”
He said, “Fine, but get back to the shelter soon, okay?”
“And do what?”
“Is it too much to ask that we get to protect the one Astrid we can’t replace?”
“Roche kept me in a hole underground.”
“Roche had a point. You aren’t even in disguise.”
“Dis—” Oh. He meant the red scarf that made her look like a middle-aged guy.
One of her ringers passed through the plaza, stepping out to stare in amazement at the skyscrapers of Delhi.
Imprisoned again, maybe, but she was free at the same time.
“Okay, I’ll go cloister myself,” she said, adding, silently: for now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
JUANITA FLOATED UP FROM sleep to find herself stretching and curling her hands, like a cat kneading a blanket. Fisting her hands, she peered around the room. It was voices that had wakened her … but there was nobody in the room.
That Fyreman finds out you’re contaminated, he’ll burn you.
She glanced at the gateway of brambles between her closet and the bathroom door. It had been following her, a constant temptation to escape. But she was facing the consequences of her actions. Showing the judge, if he happened to care, that she had some integrity.
The gate wasn’t the only sign that Astrid Lethewood had an eye on her—Juanita’s birthday, a week before, had brought an unexpected flurry of cards and good wishes via the mail. Some she’d expected. Others … there’d been a note from the Sunday school teacher she’d seen in Indigo Springs, the one who was studying contaminated foxes: “Wanted to let you know life is great! I’m happy and busy, hope you are too.” There’d been an email from her aid worker cousin, enthusing: “I’m doing so much good here—for the first time, we aren’t just spinning our wheels as people suffer.…”
A note came from the blackjack dealer who lived across the street from Ma: “Everyone in Reno safe and well. Take care of yourself.”
And half a dozen others just like that, mixed in with the family cards and packages. Innocent messages of well-being, reassurances, nobody asking a thing of her. It was sweet, almost hokey. Why risk exposing themselves like that? Roche had to be scrutinizing her mail.
Nerves drove her to the bathroom mirror. The blue stain of contamination on her ankle had long since vanished, and she looked like herself: ordinary, human. It might be months before her appearance changed.
You don’t have months, the voice said. Fyre Brigade’s coming—
Her gaze dropped to the counter, where Gilead’s sea-glass pendant rested in a pool of gold chain. It burned to touch it; he’d see she wasn’t wearing it. That was all he’d need.
So don’t touch it, sister.
After retrieving a cellophane wrapper from the trash, she laid it over the crudely carved lick of red flame, then pressed a finger to the plastic. Was that heat? No, she decided, just her body warming the glass.
No burn.
So there it was. Live—or die?
Using the cellophane as a barrier, she pinched up the pendant and slid it off its chain. Her sister-in-law had sent her a gift basket full of cosmetics: manicure kit, powder, lipstick. It sat unopened on the counter. Now she dug into it, finding a vial of clear nail polish.
Sitting on the toilet, she began varnishing the sea-glass. While it dried, she did her nails, picking apart the rest of the basket. Nail file, blush, mascara—what was Rosalia thinking? She tried it anyway, playing with her face as she waited for the pendant to dry, tarting herself up for nobody, then applying another layer of polish to the pendant.
She caught herself enjoying the nail file, the feel of it rasping over her nails. She imagined them digging into something, Sahara maybe …
With a start, she realized she was purring.
She set down the file and closed her eyes. “Please,” she murmured. “Please, I—don’t want to burn.”
Praying. She br
aced for a mocking comment from the voices, for her own cynicism to kick in. But there was nothing, just a spreading pool of interior calm. What could she do now but ask for help?
By dawn, she had painted six careful layers of enamel on the pendant. It was shinier than it had been, but that might go unnoticed. It was glass; it looked like glass.
First threading it back onto the chain, she dangled it over her knee, then lowered it to her skin.
No burn.
Weak with relief, she put it on.
Dress for work, the voice said. Roche is coming.…
“You really need to shut up now.” She flexed her hand, resisting an urge to claw the countertop.
She was buckling her belt when the knock came.
It was Roche, all right, as crisp as ever, no sign of contamination on him, either.
“Another dog and pony show, sir?”
He shook his head, holding out her gun and base ID. “Prisoner transfer. You’re to bring her to the airstrip.”
“Aren’t I under secret house arrest?”
“President ordered me to work with Landon.” A strained smile. “I’m not sure who’s in charge, or what constitutes a burning offense at this point—”
Her stomach clenched. “But?”
“Better if you’re a guard, not a prisoner.” He looked away, as if embarrassed.
“You didn’t tell him about me,” she said.
The barest shake of his head.
“That’s … kind of you, but the judge’ll tell him what I’ve done.”
“I sent George Skagway home to Reno.”
She felt a twinge of loss, ridiculously, amid the rush of relief. “Why the change of heart?”
She didn’t expect Roche to answer. He was contaminated too. Wasn’t that enough? But after a second’s contemplation, he produced a photo from his pocket, passing it over.
The shot showed a younger Roche with Caroline and Will Forest. They were standing at a trailhead, clad in hiking gear, shaggy and exhausted, fists raised in victory.
“I knew you and Forest were friends,” she said. “Didn’t realize it was all three of you.”
“I’d almost forgotten myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
He took the photo back, standing stiffly. “Good luck with the prisoner.”
“Yessir.”
She found Sahara circling her cell, limping within its confines. When Juanita appeared, she bared her teeth. “Finally. Judas shows her face.”
“Surprised, Sahara, or just sulking?”
“I don’t sulk.”
“It’s not my fault your prophecies turned out to be so much fertilizer.”
“You’re at my side in the coming battle,” Sahara said, but her voice lacked conviction. “You promised to stay with me.”
“You better hope I don’t. Step back and prepare for transfer.”
Sahara put her hands behind her head and turned from the door as Juanita unlocked her cell and began the ritual of cuffing her: waistband first, wrists, then ankles. “The tumbleweeds are screaming, Juanita. They’re burning the contaminated growth.”
If this was true, it was news to her. Still, she grunted: “Scorched earth.”
“Won’t help. It’s in the roots, dust, pollen, all the bits of green.… They’ll never get it out now.” She swayed, her restraints clanking. “It’s crumbling, like a cookie.”
“A cookie, huh?”
“Like a broken dam,” Sahara amended. “My bonds crumbled under the water’s onslaught, praise the river—”
“Works better than cookie,” Juanita said.
“You think building a religion is easy?” Sahara said. “Creating rituals, expressing ancient truths in fresh ways?”
“Making shit up?” They started down the corridor.
“I have done great works.”
“You used chantments. That’s nothing special.”
“The magic springs from me,” Sahara said.
“Even the faithful will expect a real miracle in time.”
Sahara stumbled, and as Juanita caught her, their eyes met. “Part the Red Sea, virgin birth, that kind of thing?”
“Now you’re a virgin?”
“Rise from the dead,” Sahara mused, regaining her balance. “That’s the big god trick, isn’t it?”
“Big god trick? I’m actually offended by that.”
“Ah, darling Juanita. Against your will, you continue to inspire me.”
“You are pure huckster, aren’t you?” Beyond the courthouse, the formerly overgrown sagebrush and tumbleweeds had been scorched black. Flamethrowers whooshed, baking the air, all but drowning the keening of a wounded animal. Natural gas and burnt sage choked her as camouflage-dressed men reduced the vegetation to ash. Helicopters hovered like wasps over the smoke.
The burnt air made Juanita tear up and cough. When she could breathe again, she saw Heaven.
The Alchemite chef was dangling over a stack of wood, hung like meat from the business end of a front loader. It was her shrieking … around a bloodied gag.
A tall man in a fireman’s jacket was watching her struggle.
Gilead.
Juanita’s heart slammed in terror. But as he turned, his eye fell on the doctored sea-glass pendant. He smiled.
“Think,” Sahara muttered. “It’s okay, think, come on…”
I don’t want Sahara to burn, Astrid Lethewood had said. Juanita stepped in front of her prisoner.
It was an empty gesture. Gilead had the airfield, the soldiers, the bonfire, the president’s seal of approval. As for running … Juanita scanned the field, looking for the gateway to Indigo Springs. There: on the back wall of an outbuilding. Too far. Gilead must have disenchanted the landing zone.
“He’s not here to burn me.” Sahara had regrouped. Her voice was resonant, her Goddess voice.
“I do burn you,” Gilead told her. “It’s foretold.”
“You want the Filthwitch, you need me,” Sahara said.
“What makes you think I need help?”
“Had any luck getting into Indigo Springs?”
“My resource base is expanding, witch; yours is spent.”
“I’m the key to the locked door.” Sahara batted her eyelashes. “I bet that’s foretold too.”
“How?”
“Astrid wants to save me,” Sahara said. “It’s her Achilles’ heel.”
“If you got in, you’d ally with Lethewood against us.”
“And people say I’m paranoid. Astrid won’t work with me.”
“Then you’re gambling you can overthrow her and betray us.”
“Right now we’re both on the outside.” Sahara’s expansive gesture was jerked short by her restraints. “You want a shot at the magical well, you’ll have to risk it.”
“What you’re risking is your last followers in a battle you cannot win.”
Sahara didn’t blink. “Sounds like a good deal for you.”
“Astrid Lethewood has visionaries too.”
“Astrid won’t let foreknowledge or common sense get in the way of her crusade to save everyone. Come on, big guy, teeny-tiny little reprieve? What’s your book of prophecies say?”
“Ruination and Befoulment,” Gilead intoned. He laid a glowing finger on Sahara’s forehead, and she gagged. The chantments Juanita had given her dropped from her mouth—first the stamp, then the amber bead. With a heave, she brought up something else—a rusted, blood-tinged bottle cap.
“Gilead—,” Juanita said.
Sahara trilled as her face shifted, eyes darkening to shoe buttons, mouth stiffening into a beak. The contamination, no longer arrested by the chantment embedded in her chest, was changing her back into a bird-woman.
That could be me, Juanita thought, dry mouthed.
“No more disguises,” Gilead said. “You’re Befouled; now you look it.”
“My true self restored,” Sahara said. “You burning me now, or not?”
“Not you.” Gilead nodded at one of
his minions.
Juanita lunged, but it was too late. The wood ignited and Heaven caught fire, her body going rigid with agony as flames enveloped her.
“You had no right to do that!” she bellowed.
“It’s all right,” Sahara said. “Heaven’s honored to be sacrificed in my place.”
Juanita pulled away from them both, forcing herself to look at the pyre as Heaven fought and wailed. Please, let her pass out fast.
She watched until Heaven became a still, dark shadow amid the flames.
“Juanita,” Gilead said.
She dashed at her eyes. “Neither of you is anything special. You know that, don’t you? You’re a couple of fucking serial killers.”
Sahara cackled.
Gilead’s voice, when he replied, was gentle. “Get your prisoner onto the chopper, Marshal.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE PADLOCK CHANTMENT WAS a heavy iron antique, heart shaped and covered in rust. It lay in Will’s palm, ice cold … and securely locked. Whoever’d made it had that in mind when he chanted it: a heart, closed against something it loved. He sensed the dark intention within the thing. The vicious personality of its chanter, long dead, lived on in his works.
The lock had come in with the latest Alchemite refugee, a lanky woman with a Southern accent who was in the final weeks of pregnancy. She lay unconscious on a gurney in the Indigo Springs hospital as her rescuers searched her for chantments and members of Janet’s medical team checked for illnesses or injuries. All the new arrivals got this treatment—volunteers checked them for everything from influenza and cancer to magical contamination.
“She’s okay?” Astrid’s ringer asked.
The medic on duty nodded. “Utterly healthy, no contamination. They set her house on fire, but we got her before she breathed in much smoke—”
“Chantments?” Astrid asked.
“Just the one.”
“Can we move her to the ghost town?” Will asked. “I want to find out about the padlock.”
Astrid frowned. “Is the baby okay?”
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