by L. L. Muir
“I think she’s changing her clothes,” Skye said.
The man closed his eyes for only a second. “She is.” He put his hands on Skye’s shoulders. “I mean what I say. No matter what, you must stay calm. Don’t wonder why you’re being tested, just worry about passing the test.”
Her mouth dropped open, then she remembered he was an angel, a guy whose job it was to answer prayers. Maybe he was trying to answer hers.
Forgive everything.
Wow.
She tried to stop thinking so he could stop listening. If she hadn’t been a believer before, she was now.
They stood in silence for a good ten minutes. The alarm sounded two more times in the interim. Finally, the inner door opened and Gabriella returned, or rather, the theatrical version of her. The peacock outfit was complete, and the silky, confident persona was back.
“Shall we?” Her voice, though, had yet to recover. It shook like a nervous teenager’s the first day back to school. Maybe, if Gabriella kept her mouth shut, Pilot would believe she was her usual self. But she wasn’t. Buchanan’s presence had changed her. Maybe she was a believer too.
And maybe, if he was a gifted mind reader, Pilot already knew he was screwed.
Sparkling and elegant, she walked to the wall and pressed a lever. The stone doorway opened outward. “Come.”
Buchanan followed the blue costume through the opening, then waved for Skye to follow suit. The two of them held back at the edge of the stage while Gabriella moved into the center of it. There was no sign of Pilot. And no sign of Jamison. If he had been placed into the large crowd of non-Somerleds, he wasn’t making it easy to find him. There were plenty of blonds in the mix.
Gabriella moved around the stage, nodding now and again, while she watched the crowd file into the rows of seating. The mezzanine filled with the same white robes Skye had hidden among during the last assembly. More of them packed into the triangular cages beneath the strange rock outcrops. A few brighter-white-robed Somerleds took up posts near the doors, but the larger body of them were still missing, just like Ruth.
The doors closed. All occupants were apparently accounted for. With everyone in their seats, Skye checked the sections that had been blocked from view a minute ago.
No Jamison.
But all eyes weren’t on the brilliantly clad woman on stage like the time before. Instead, everyone was watching the center of the sunken arena.
Hold. Buchanan’s voice echoed in her head.
Four Somerleds walked into the center carrying long poles on their shoulders. The stained altar hung suspended between them. Once they reached the middle of the dirt floor, they bent, set it down, then slid the poles free. Another set of four men carried a squirming blond the same way, an arm or leg over their shoulders. She didn’t have to see his face to know it was Jamison. But she didn’t react. Buchanan’s warning echoed in her head and she concentrated on breathing in and out.
Jamison’s escorts walked to either side of the altar, laid him down on it, then held him while wide metal bands lifted on their own and locked him in place. The white forms stepped away, and after half a minute of struggling against the restraints, Jamison stopped fighting.
She knew the moment Gabriella realized Jamison was on the altar. The woman said nothing, but her already erect posture stiffened even more.
Jamison lay still. A white cloth covered his eyes. Another covered his mouth. His chest heaved from labored breathing, but eventually, that calmed too. Eventually, besides his chest, he made only small movements with his head, like he was listening closely.
Skye reached for Buchanan’s sleeve and gave it a tug. “Can you talk to him?”
I am doing so now.
Tell him I love him. If the worst happened, she didn’t want to be kicking herself for the rest of her life for passing up the chance to ease his mind.
Buchanan squeezed her hand. He loves you. He says, “Don’t freak out.”
But we’re going to save him, right?
Of course.
Then I won’t freak out.
Stay back. Buchanan stepped off the stage and moved slowly but purposefully toward the center of the massive room.
It’s probably a trap, she thought to warn him.
Probably.
A Somerled stepped out into his path and Buchanan flew backward, slamming into the stairs only a few feet from Skye. He didn’t make so much as a grunt when he struck, then he calmly got back on his feet and faced his assailant. It was the kid who had once knocked her onto her butt on the sidewalk in Henderson, all with just a gesture, which, at the time, she thought was some impressive new weapon. How could she have forgotten? How could she have doubted?
The kid grinned at Buchanan and sent him flying again, this time higher, above the stage, before the big man fell to the floor. The impact barely made a sound in the silent stadium. Then, like a stubborn old dog, he returned to his feet and headed down the steps again.
The boy raised his hand just like before, palm toward Buchanan. But then both his hands whipped up to cup the sides of his head and he groaned as if in pain. The big man thrust him out of his way and continued toward the rail that stood between himself and the center arena.
“You see?” Pilot’s voice echoed overhead. It was impossible to tell which way it was coming from. “No use in us fighting, old friend. Neither of us can be harmed.”
Buchanan ignored him and climbed over the railing, then hopped down to the arena floor. The entire audience seemed to be holding their breath, even though, for all they knew, Buchanan was there to kill the kid on the altar. He said nothing as he approached the large orange-colored slab of stone the size of a hospital bed. He took away the blindfold and tossed it behind him. Then he pulled the gag from Jamison’s mouth before turning his attention to the metal bands holding his long body to the table.
The band across Jamison’s calves rose and bounced a few times. One down. Four to go.
Too easy! It has to be a trap! But trap or not, Skye didn’t want him to give up.
“Buchanan, get out of there!” Gabriella shouted, pointing to the sky. Until that moment, Skye hadn’t noticed the ceiling was open. The well-trained, silent spectators noticed too and she could almost taste the tension in the air.
Somerleds stepped into the arena. If they’d been standing against the edges, Skye hadn’t noticed. Or maybe they’d come from that door Jamison had used to get away while everyone else had been blinded that first time. But there were more than just the men who had carried Jamison and the altar.
Skye counted a dozen bright white robes fanning out and surrounding Buchanan, but they held back. None of them tried to stop him from releasing Jamison.
Still, none of the other restraints were releasing. Why aren’t they releasing?
Something changed. Buchanan stopped pulling at the silver bands and turned. His gaze found Gabriella and held.
Skye’s stomach lurched when she realized that Gabriella herself might have set the trap for him. How many minutes had passed since she’d told Skye she wished she could punish her own betrayer?
Had the snake been lurking just below the surface while Buchanan held her hand?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“No!” Gabriella lunged forward, reaching out toward Buchanan. She gathered her shimmering skirt in both hands and rushed to the stairs. Though Skye didn’t understand what the woman was planning, she ran to join her. Gabriella’s shoes slowed her down and she shot Skye a grateful glance when they were close enough for Gabriella to grasp her shoulder for support.
It was then that Skye realized the small circle of Somerleds were singing.
“Cease!” Gabriella shouted clearly, but emotion broke her voice.
No one stopped.
She kicked off her shoes and together she and Skye hurried over the railing and dropped to the dirt floor. Gabriella ran to the closest Somerled and shoved him onto his backside. He got quickly to his feet and resumed singing. It didn’t seem to b
other the underground ant that he’d just defied his Queen.
Skye hurried to the next one and tried to do the same, but the guy was strong, and the shove she gave him didn’t interrupt his droning, much less knock him down.
She spun to look at the altar, to make sure it wasn’t rising into the air—certain she could destroy everyone in the circle with her bare hands if Jamison was in danger—but the altar wasn’t budging. She looked at Buchanan, wondering if she might be able to pull him out of the circle if he couldn’t do it himself, but he was already rising off the ground. Gabriella lunged for his legs but after a few desperate seconds, they slid from her grasp like a toy being taken from a child.
“Wait!” Jamison’s face was red from straining against the bands. Frantically, he searched the faces of the circle of Somerleds. “Stop singing. Hear him out! Pilot has been lying to you.” He grunted in frustration. “Listen to me! Don’t believe his lies! Stop singing. Please!”
Buchanan’s fingertips stretched down toward Gabriella, his face resigned. She stood stoically beneath him, never looking away. The small choir of voices droned on like a robotic army, taking Buchanan away from the woman who loved him. Taking from Gabriella the one who truly loved her.
The communication between the two was private. The anguish on Gabriella’s tear-drenched face was very public. There was no doubt about how the woman felt as Buchanan gave up reaching for her.
Forgive her, Skye. Buchanan’s voice startled her. She strained to hear more, but then all sound stopped. The big man became a flash of bright light. And then the light, too, was gone, and with it, their best and brightest hope for escape.
Gabriella flung herself at the closest Somerled. Her fingernails raked at his robes. “How dare you,” she seethed.
Skye rushed to Jamison’s side. Metal bands or not, no one would get between them again.
“They dare,” Pilot called out from the stage, “because they obey only me now.” He moved to the edge of the smooth platform and frowned down on her. His face flickered back and forth between emotions. From triumph to heartbreak, then to triumph again.
Presumably, to see him more clearly, Gabriella stepped back from the defiant worker-ant, toward the center where Skye was discreetly searching the altar for some release mechanism. But there was nothing!
“I cannot trust you to co-captain this ship,” Pilot growled, “if you will not control your emotions. With our most momentous victory looming before us, you chose to question everything I’ve taught you because of the ranting of a mortal boy—a Trojan horse—sent by your enemy.”
“I never claimed to believe him,” the woman said simply.
Pilot’s face twisted like an angry old woman. “But you believed Buchanan,” he spat. “Instantly! And without question!” He beat at his chest with one hand. “I gave you forty mortal years. He gave you nothing!”
Gabriella glanced at the ceiling that was quietly closing. Then her eyes fell shut and very human tears streamed down her beautiful cheeks. A glittering bird standing defeated in the depths of a cage—a bird that had been knocked out of the sky.
The audience was transfixed.
Pilot sighed dramatically. “It’s time, Gabriella. Come.” He held offered his hand to her. He now stood to the side, nearer the steps, all but pointing out her path to redemption.
Gabriella put her hands behind her and stepped backward. Apparently, she wasn’t interested.
“Come,” he insisted. His tone implied there would be consequences if she didn’t obey.
She shook her head and stepped back again, and again. The circle of Somerleds broke to get out of her way. She stopped at the shallow edge, though she could easily have turned and run up into the crowd.
One side of Pilot’s face lifted in a smirk and he dropped his hand. Then he gathered up his robes and took to the stairs. Moving like a patient snake, he slithered down the steps toward his prey, the train of his robes dragged along behind him, swaying back and forth as he descended.
Skye looked down at Jamison and whispered, “I can’t find a release.”
“There’s a door in the wall. About four feet in, on the right side, there’s a knob. I tried to tell Buchanan, but it was too late.”
Skye didn’t want to leave him with Pilot headed their way, but she had no choice. She had to get him free before someone decided the altar needed a new coat of blood.
She jumped up so she could lean over him, then gave him a quick kiss. “For luck,” she said, then pushed herself back off the table. Pilot and Gabriella never even glanced her way. And none of the Somerleds tried to stop her from slipping between their ranks and heading for the door in the wall. Their attention was fixed on their new leader.
As Skye groped along, searching for the opening, she kept a wary eye on Pilot, still visible above the heads of the others.
The man who called himself a Primary grinned at Gabriella and stopped at the railing. He peeked over the edge, then laughed. “You really didn’t expect me to come down there to get you, surely.”
Skye strained to see Gabriella. The woman’s face fell like she was going to cry. Then she hurried forward. “Oh, Pilot. Forgive me. This is so foolish.” When she got to the railing, she slipped her hands under the lowest bar and wrapped her hands around the bottom of Pilot’s boots. His grin fell away and his face smoothed. It was obvious he wanted to forgive her.
“What are you waiting for?” Gabriella shouted over her shoulder. “Sing!”
The humming began again, loud and confident. A choir of hundreds. The ceiling separated and the panels started slipping farther and farther apart.
With her back to the wall, Skye felt for the door and watched the Somerleds in the arena, but they weren’t singing—they were rising. The chorus was coming from the caged Somerleds just as it had for Ruth. But this time, they were doing it for Gabriella.
Skye stepped away from the wall to look between the dangling robes and kicking feet to make sure Jamison was all right. He was.
“Cease!” Pilot’s bellow repeated over and over, but no one was listening.
Skye leaned to the right. Sure enough, Pilot was rising with the others! Gabriella’s hands were empty now, but she’d held him long enough to prevent him from scurrying back to safety.
But there was no time to celebrate. Not until Jamison was free.
Skye found the door in the wall, but no handle. She pushed along the edges, hoping it would either bounce back at her or cave in, but the wall was solid. She searched a wider area, hoping for another door, but there wasn’t one. She looked up at the mezzanine, where she’d been sitting, to check the angle.
This has to be it.
She tried pressing again, pressing on an angle, lifting. She dug a slipper into the dirt around the base, looking for some mechanism, but there was nothing there either.
How had Jamison done it? She summoned the memory… The door opened and an arm reached out and took hold of Jamison, then pulled him through. Buchanan had opened the door from the inside!
She looked up at the stage. The way to the door had to be underneath it. Maybe there was a passage from Gabriella’s office.
“Close your eyes!” Jamison shouted.
Skye obeyed just in time. The silent explosion lit the inside of her eyelids a brilliant orange. The warm color cooled to black when she got her arm up against her face.
The shock wouldn’t last long. She needed to get moving. But getting back to Gabriella’s office and then making her way to the other side of the door would leave Jamison vulnerable for too long. She was pretty sure Gabriella had changed sides—at least she wasn’t on Pilot’s—but that didn’t mean Jamison was safe. And there were still a few Somerleds out there guarding the doors—safely outside the circle of singing—who seemed to be willing to obey whoever was the craziest.
For the moment, though, there were only the three of them in the arena, so Skye hurried back to the altar and stood between the woman and Jamison. Just in case, just until she coul
d predict what Gabriella, the betrayed and bereft, would do.
“I couldn’t get the door to open from this side,” Skye said quietly over her shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll just reason with her. It will be okay.”
Skye nodded, but she wasn’t holding out hope. Gabriella didn’t look too reasonable at the moment. She was muttering to herself—the kind of muttering you didn’t interrupt. Then she started moving, unseeing, around the edge of the sunken arena. She paced quickly, still muttering. After a few minutes, she began to slow. The frenzy faded, circle by completed circle, until she came to a complete stop and sighed.
She looked around the stadium first, smiling at the faces looking expectantly back at her. Then she laughed—a little humming laugh that didn’t show her teeth.
“Well, then.” She lifted her chin. “How many loyal Somerleds do I have left?”
Five white sleeves raised tentatively into the air. All that was left of her minions stood next to gray double-doors, probably poised to run if they heard more singing. But among those on the mezzanine, another dozen stood.
“Only five,” she said, ignoring the others. “It’s a good thing I don’t need more,” she said to herself.
“Gabriella?” Skye said smoothly. “Can you help me get Jamison off the table?” She tried to act like she completely expected the woman to help, like when she’d expected her to give her the little blue paper off the floor.
“Mmm? Oh.” The long, brightly painted fingernails on Gabriella’s right hand felt back and forth until they found a pocket in her sparkling gown. She pulled out a small flat-screen device and tapped it.
Skye turned when she heard the whirring of a small motor, but the only band that moved was the one over his legs—locking back in place. She turned back, hoping it was just a mistake on Gabriella’s part, but the old Gabriella had returned. And that mask that Skye had witnessed slipping before, slipped again. She could almost see it dangling from one side of Gabriella’s face then dropping to the floor and shattering on the orange rock surface.