by Shaun Barger
“Do you believe in Hell, Jemma Burton?” Grimm called after her.
Jem ignored him and ran, harder and faster than she’d ever run before—even as the window ahead of her shattered, the crimson pixies flooding in, diving and nipping at her face as she threw her arms over her head and barreled through them, blind, skidding around the next corner, beacon clutched to her chest.
“Neither did We,” Grimm and Titania’s former bodies continued. All talking in terrifying unison. The pixies like whispers under the insidious baritone of the security android’s voice. “So We built it.”
She came to a pair of doors. Locked. She turned to double back, but Mr. Grimm stood there, waiting. The pixies hovering silently around him, spreading along the walls, creeping through the air to surround her . . .
“We don’t care that you’re a child. That you’re an innocent. Tell us where Eva Colladi is.”
She pressed back against the doors, eyes darting frantically as she searched for any way out. Only empty air beyond the windows to her left. They were on the second story now, the doors they’d first entered at the top of an incline. The ground was much lower on this side of the building.
“We will find her. Even if you don’t tell us. We are giving you this chance out of mercy.”
“No!” Jem screamed, eyes squeezed shut as she hugged herself, trembling. “No, no, no—”
“You could be the first. In our Hell. Would you like that?”
“She’s not here, I don’t know where she is, I won’t tell you anything, I won’t—”
“Your flesh seared from bone a thousand times? Your little fingers stained with the blood of your loved ones, not knowing that what you’ve done is an illusion, that you haven’t actually lost your mind and butchered those dearest to you? Again and again and again—”
She opened her eyes. Silent. Trembling. Defiant.
“No.”
The pixies went silent, their red glow dimming to gray. The android kneeled, its demeanor softening.
“Please, Jemma,” it said—speaking only with one voice. Mr. Grimm’s voice now—kindly and soft. Nothing like that hideously inhuman cold. “We don’t want to hurt you. Give us Eva and we will spare you and your parents. We’ll keep you safe from what’s to come. You don’t have to die. Don’t have to suffer for an eternity. Your mother. Your father. All that pain. For nothing. So . . . for the last time. Will you help us?”
It held out its hand.
Jem looked at mechanical fingers, still damp with Mr. Alfonso’s blood.
She turned her head. Looked to the dizzying height beyond the window.
“No.”
The hand reached out for Jem, snatching violently at empty air as she ran into the window, ramming her shoulder into the glass and smashing through it. Blood plumed from her face, her hands, from cuts so deep and clean that Jem didn’t even feel pain, just the air, a thousand little slices of cold as she plummeted to the cement below and—
The ground disappeared in a smear of neon green.
Jem sat up with a scream, her medical gown drenched with sweat.
She reeled, gasping.
Where? How . . .
Somehow, she was on a bed—a simple wheeled medical pallet pressed up against a cement wall. There was a heavy armored door set into the wall behind her—the opposite side of the room completely taken up by a massive mechanical labyrinth of wires and pipes. Some intricate sprawling machine at the center of which was a steel throne.
A woman sat hunched over on the throne as if asleep, her face covered completely by a helmet sprouting thick bundles of wires and cords that led into the machine.
Jem clutched the side of her bed, terrified, confused, searching her memory banks to try and figure how she’d gotten here. But there was nothing—just the church and the bomb and the flood of wet earth as the tunnel closed in on her and Ezra—
Then she’d been a twelve-year-old girl again, on that horrible day. But she hadn’t just been reliving her memories of the last time she’d been with Eva. She’d never gone so deep into an immersion that she believed it to be real. And not only that, but the memory had been different. The details had been wrong.
There had been no beacon. No looping bracelet for Jem to lead the Synth away. The emergency beacon was in Eva’s mods, in both their mods—why would they have something like that in a piece of outdated external equipment? They’d hid in a classroom, Jem barricading the door as Mr. Grimm smashed wordlessly against it, as the pixies battered against the windows, chittering and laughing.
The Colladi security detail had arrived just in time, cutting the android and fairies to synthetic shreds with heavy weaponry before evacuating the girls, flying them out amid a fleet of powerfully armed aircrafts as they treated Eva’s wounds. As Jem watched the world below them burn.
Jem and Eva had been separated after that.
Jem off with her family and other high-ranking government officials to coordinate from within the hidden recesses of a government bunker.
Eva off with her parents, who went on to become the leaders and great heroes of the initial battle against the Synth. The private army they had built up with their trillions had been one of the few that had actually been properly prepared to defend itself against the horrific possibility of a war against the Synth.
Even as the plague unleashed by the Synth decimated the population—even as the colonists blockaded their orbit and signed a treaty with the Synth, abandoning those trapped on Earth—the Colladi family refused to give in, becoming an almost mythical symbol of hope to humans everywhere.
This all came to an end when the Colladis were betrayed by a high-ranking member of the Resistance who turned the then fifteen-year-old Eva over to the Synth. The Synth threatened to put Eva into Torment unless her parents surrendered themselves and called for the Resistance to end. They refused, and Eva was very publicly entered into Torment. The whole world watched with horror as the brilliant, beautiful, beloved heiress was transformed into a gibbering, insane wreck by a virtual eternity of suffering.
The Synth paraded her around as a spectacle. As a warning. The daughter of their great heroes, who’d stood strong against the Synth for so many years. Who’d held their ground, who’d kept so many safe and out from under the thumb of Synthetic rule.
That was the last time Jem had seen Eva, the broken and freshly branded girl on every screen in every city, for days on end. Jem had never cried so hard, for so long. She’d almost given up then. Almost allowed herself to be caught. Suicide by Synth.
But she hadn’t. And afterward, she found herself hardened. Completely unable to cry, no matter what horrors she beheld.
Eva’s father killed himself, and after that the almost-broken Resistance went fully underground. Jem never found out what happened to Eva or her mother. She assumed the worst.
So why? Why had Jem been forced to experience that day once more, as if it had been real? And why had it been . . . wrong?
The loud hum of machinery became silent, the chaotic myriad of lights among the pipes and wires growing dim. The woman on the throne stirred, straightening her back as she awakened. She raised her arms to press long, pale fingers against the side of the helmet covering her face.
Slowly, she raised it from her head and set it beside her—raven curls cascading to fall across her shoulders.
Jemma sat there, stunned, as Eva Colladi climbed down from the throne. Cherry lips peaked up into the ghost of a smile. The inverted triangle all-seeing eye branded on her forehead was an old scar now, but still fiery red against the porcelain of her skin.
Eva placed a gentle hand upon Jem’s cheek, bright blue eyes welling with tears. Jem tried to speak but found she couldn’t, reaching with trembling fingers to touch Eva’s face as well, as if to make sure she was real.
“Hello, ma chère,” Eva said. Voice choked with emotion. “My little swan.”
Jem pulled her into a desperate, powerful embrace. And together, they wept.
V.
LAND OF SKY AND GOLD
Captain Jubal shook Nikolai’s hand as they said goodbye in a hall lined with doors.
On each door there was a tiny window peering out with a bird’s-eye view onto cities, towns, farmlands, nature reserves—all sorts of Veils, each with its name hovering in golden letters over the illusory picture.
On the Marblewood door a lush and bustling town crowned an immense, gently sloping hill. On one side of the hill, there was a pristine lake surrounded by a maple forest, rice paddies, and steep, sandy cliffs. Vast farmlands stretched across the other side, spotted with orchards and terraced vineyards.
By all appearances, Marblewood was paradise.
In summer the days were long and lit with a soft honey warmth. Nights were gently cool, with multicolor cosmos sparkling overhead. Fireflies would float in the shadows of every tree, quietly humming an expertly curated roster of classic love songs.
In autumn the fallen maple leaves wouldn’t ever touch the ground—they’d just blow in the wind, which always smelled faintly of gingerbread and wood smoke. The swirling patterns would grow exponentially as the season wore on and more leaves fell from the branches to join their dancing brethren, until finally they all fled like migrating birds when winter came.
In winter the snow would melt into steam instead of water, and was only cool to the touch instead of icy.
In spring every surface would explode into vast pastel seas of rippling petals. Children would pluck flowers that grew shaped like teacups, and peel open the petals to sip the sugary nectar.
Marblewood was a place to fall in love. To raise a family. It was a university town, full of scholars, students, retired artists, and wealthy farmers. It was a Veil that had never been touched by war or tragedy.
Nikolai knew all this. He’d been born there, and grown up in its splendor.
But the magic had never touched him. He’d never been able to feel the beauty, whimsy, or mystery. The only magic that had ever made him feel wonder and awe had been that of the old human books, movies, and music.
“All right, m’boy,” Jubal said, opening the Marblewood door for Nikolai.
Nikolai shouldered his bag. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate this.”
Behind the door was a cramped compartment with two narrow benches on either side, facing each other.
It was a part of a network of bullet chambers—cramped little cylinders used exclusively by the Edge Guard that were many times faster than the civilian trains. This seemingly endless hall was Jubal’s personal bullet terminal, accessible via a doorway in the captain’s office.
“Think nothing of it. And Nikolai?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Try not to get into any more fights to the death, please?” Jubal chuckled. “Especially with half-magi. Never underestimate those fuckers, as you well know. Can’t use magic, so they always fight dirty.”
Nikolai smirked. “Magic isn’t fighting dirty, sir?”
The captain didn’t quite smile. “Fair point.”
He closed the door with one final wave, leaving Nikolai alone in the dim ruby glow of the communication crystal. The journey from the capitol Veil (in what magi were taught had once been Southern California) to Marblewood (in Pennsylvania) would be just short of an hour.
The bullet began traveling around 3,000 miles per hour with barely a tug to indicate that it was moving.
Nikolai pulled a dull copper memory cube from his bag. The polished surface felt fuzzy with electricity as he traced his fingers to illuminate the enchantments. When he found the rough little symbols of a beetle next to a song note he’d doodled, he flicked the symbols to summon a glowing web of connected lights, like a constellation. He brought his finger to a stop on one of the stars and released it to play the song “Hey Jude” by the Beatles.
Nikolai listened to the music and let his mind wonder.
When he finally arrived, the secret door from the bullet chamber opened into a tiny room that appeared to be most often used as a secondary broom closet for the janitors. The door to the room opened discreetly from the far wall in the grand lobby of Marblewood’s city hall.
The lobby had an immense ceiling enchanted to look like the sky—framed by a colorfully shifting array of magical stained glass.
There was a statue at the center of the room wrought in silver and gold, with two figures who looked like a pair of lovers saying goodbye. The golden sorceress—characterized by her staff and traditional garb—holding hands with a silver human dressed in the contemporary formalwear of humanity’s final days. The man was stepping back, pulling away from her—the sorceress’s expression one of sorrow, loss. It was a memorial to the humans, dead now for a century.
As a child, Nikolai had found the hall to be the grandest thing in the world. But now, strolling through the sparse crowds with his bag slung over his shoulder, he found it merely . . . quaint.
It struck Nikolai how genuinely different Marblewood was from New Damascus. He’d grown accustomed to the wide pedestrian streets of the capital as skycrafts and air trollies crisscrossed distantly overhead.
Here, only Watchman skyhorns buzzed by above. Wooden cabs with plush red seats floated like boats along the streets, the occasional horse trotting on the outermost lanes beside them.
Uncle Red wasn’t home yet from his Edge Guard office in Watchman HQ. He was the only Edge Guard in Marblewood, though even the smallest Veils usually had at least two.
Nikolai had seen his uncle briefly at the start of the stakeout, but the discussion had been coolly polite—Red seemingly nonplussed that his involvement had been limited to emergency point of contact, even though the investigation should have been his to supervise.
Red hadn’t cared about much since Nikolai’s parents died. Ashley had completely left him out of the conspiracy to kill the king, Jubal had explained. And even though it had been to protect Red, the captain believed, so that Nikolai might have a guardian should she fail, the exclusion (discovered only after she’d been killed) had quite nearly broken him.
Since then, Jubal explained, though Red had continued his responsibilities of Veil maintenance and remained in contact with the Edge Guard, he’d been on a sort of informal retirement.
Nikolai’s room in Uncle Red’s apartment was a neat but jumbled collection of books and knickknacks. Packed with human memorabilia and old, broken pieces of tech. Cogs and gears, yellowing magazines and comics wrapped in transparent mesh enchanted to preserve the flimsy old paper. His walls were plastered with magi-print posters of old human movies and music that he, Stokes, and Astor had copied from the university archives.
Nikolai wiped away the thick coating of dust from the communication crystal atop his cluttered desk. He opened his mouth to call Ilyana, then hesitated. She probably hadn’t even read the note yet. He could call her later once he’d settled in.
Instead he called George Stokes. The only mage left in Marblewood who would be happy to hear from him. Probably. Hopefully.
Nikolai had been good about keeping in touch with Stokes during his first months as an Edge Guard. They’d talked almost every other day via comm crystal, Stokes deftly evading Nikolai’s not-so-smooth probes about Astor and dramatically regaling Nik with exaggerated tales of his life as an apprentice tailor.
Meanwhile, Nik had been forced to carefully talk around his own Edge Guard lessons and responsibilities, much of which he was only allowed to discuss in detail with fellow government personnel. As time went on, it became a point of anxiety. So, slowly, they’d drifted apart.
It had been almost a year since he’d last spoken with Stokes. Disc, he was such a shit friend.
Taking a deep breath, he tapped the crystal.
“Stokes residence.”
The depths of the crystal swirled to life, colors twisting and flashing as the sphere gently hummed. Stokes’s face appeared inches from the crystal, grinning.
“Nik!” Stokes screamed into his crystal. “What’s up, bro?”
Nikolai couldn’t stop smiling. “Hey, buddy. Guess who’s home?”
“What? You beautiful bastard! How long you back?”
“Like a month.”
“Dude. That’s amazing! So much shit has gone down since we last talked. Got approved for a loan to start my own shop!”
“Seriously?” Nik said. “That’s—”
“Awesome, right? You wouldn’t believe it—sneakers and boots, eyewear, jeans, jackets, suits, robes, hats, everything. Human fashion reimagined for the modern mage. And buddy, it is blowing up!”
Nikolai laughed, impossibly relieved that Stokes hadn’t even acknowledged how long it had been since Nikolai had last called. But of course he should have known Stokes would be cool about it. That’s just how Stokes was.
“That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you, Stokes.”
“Yeah, that’s all right,” he said, waving dismissively. “Know what’s better? I have a girlfriend now. And you know what that means?”
“That you—”
“Sex!” he interrupted. “And I don’t have to tell you, but this sex thing? It is some seriously good shit.”
“Disc, George!” Stokes’s father sputtered from out of view. “I’m still here! Please, I don’t want to hear about your, your . . . relations!”
“Sorry, Dad!” he called over to him before turning back to Nikolai. “Hey, if you’re free, you should come meet me at my shop. One-twenty-six Mars Avenue. Can’t miss it.”
“What’s it called?”
“Like I said,” he replied with a wink, “you can’t miss it. You’re lucky you caught me; I just dropped by to pick up lunch for Trudy and me. She’s holding down the fort till I get back, so I gotta head out. See you there!” Then, just as Stokes was about to switch off the comm crystal: “Oh!”
“Yeah?”
“If you get there before me, don’t tell Trudy I told you about us boning at least four hundred times by now.”
“George!” Another disgusted cry from his father.
“Our flesh as one!” he laughed, speaking loudly. “Sweating bodies entwined in carnal passion! As I plunge myself deep into her lady flower, again and again and again—!”