And I pegged this girl for a meek lab rat when we first met. She’s not wrong, either; in my long life, I’ve come to understand that creation may always be harder than destruction, but it’s far more rewarding. Not that I’m currently following that wisdom. Ah well.
“So where does this leave things?” I ask, pointing at the battered remote. “What will you do now?”
“Same as you, Sara,” she says. “Reach for the stars. We both have very difficult goals. One day at a time.”
I could be disgusted, I realize, by the crime she’s trying to commit, yet any anger I might have for her is caught by the gross abomination that is Finemdi. Hating Samantha at this point would be like hating rain before the rushing waters of a flood. Both can be dangerous, yes, but at the moment, one is by far the greater threat. I’m momentarily pleased by this reasoning, as it occurs to me this is exactly the opposite of the way Garen thinks.
In the end, though, Samantha may not appreciate my efforts, regardless of whether I wish her ill. “That’s it?” I ask. “Getting what I want would mean wiping out your research here, right? If I destroy this place, what will you do?”
“Rebuild. Start again. I’m not blind, Sara,” she says, then laughs to herself. “Well, not anymore, at least. I know what I’m doing is dark. I know this entire corporation is darker still, and my father? Who knows what he truly is? I may refuse to take measures into my own hands, to walk this path of violence you follow so readily, but I am not blind. If you succeed, our world will be better for it.” She smiles. “Unless I get caught up in whatever it is you’re doing. I’d kind of like to live, if that’s all right.”
“Picky, picky,” I say with a snort.
That gets me a genuine grin. “What’s the plan, Sara?” she asks. “Tell me what I need to know to make it out of here in one piece.”
“Fair is fair,” I say, nodding. “Here’s what I have so far.…”
I spill the bones of my scheme, what I’ve learned so far and what I think will be most relevant to her survival. I hold back a few choice details, but nothing that will put her in danger. When I’m done, she actually seems impressed, which I take as a compliment.
“You’re going to make a hell of a mess, at the very least,” she says when I’m finished. She pulls the level she was playing with off the shelf and hands it to me. “I’m glad you were willing to tell me all that—I know trust doesn’t come easy around here. Good luck, Sara.”
“And to you, Samantha,” I say, looking at the object in my hands. I hold it up. “What—”
“It’s a leveler,” she says, moving toward the exit. “Works on the principle that all magic is applied belief. Activate it and it tries to blanket the area with a wave of apathy collected from our ‘volunteers.’ Think of the worst aspects of modern skepticism, and imagine being bathed in a roomful of it. Tends to shatter spells and dampen gods. It’s here in case something follows us through the teleportation effect. You might find it useful.”
“Um, thanks,” I say, suddenly uneasy about the thing. Concentrated disbelief? I hate to think what that would feel like. “How do I…?”
“Break it open to release the wave,” she says, pausing in the doorway. “And thank you, Sara.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For not forcing me to use it on you,” she says with a wan smile. “And for listening. I’ll be in touch. I’d still like to learn more.”
She turns and walks out into the hallway. I listen to her footsteps echo as she strides away, then look down at the device in my hands, realizing that even as I was considering the need to kill or incapacitate Samantha, she was doing the same with me.
I like this girl.
14
PARTY CRASHER
I start casting spells that night.
I try to start small, keep them controlled, but I can’t help myself—I’m so giddy about the idea of using real magic, about preparing myself for a showdown, that I end up completely exhausted, burning myself out on three meager charms I could have rattled off in my sleep back in the day.
I almost take a swing at Nathan the next morning as he wakes me up for work, and it’s a struggle to keep it together long enough for the kids at the park to charge me with belief. Even with their help, I feel like I’m sleepwalking through most of the day. That evening, I sit down in my room and try again. This time, I promise myself, it’ll just be one spell. I gather mystic reagents around myself and get ready to start. That’s one thing I love about the modern world, by the way: It’s so easy to find spell components. Back in the day, I had to send my followers to scour the four corners of the earth, hoping they would find the strange metals and plants I needed. Weeks, months, and sometimes even years would pass before they would return with the supplies I needed. Now I just order everything I need online, in bulk, with free two-day shipping. The Internet’s a hell of a thing.
The enchantment comes together like a warm quilt, arcane fibers weaving through the air above me before condensing and settling around my body. I feel a pleasant shudder as the net of energy binds to my soul, and then say the single word that will return it to me when I need it: “Mangalitsa.” That done, I lie back down on the floor, drained.
The next time I say it aloud, the weave will activate and I’ll have a split second to pick a nearby location for forty gallons of water to appear. Combined with last night’s efforts, this is the start of what I hope will be an impressive selection of prepared spells. It’s my solution to the problem of being so weak—if I were to start a fight now, all I’d be able to do on the fly is cast one or two pathetic cantrips before running out of juice. Now, if everything goes well, I’ll be able to recall dozens of useful charms and enchantments. Each will fade in exactly one month’s time, so depending on how long it is before I’m ready to act, I may have to start redoing these, but I don’t mind—casting spells is wonderfully cathartic and reminds me of the old days.
Groaning, I push myself back to a sitting position and stand. I walk over to my desk and fish around in the top drawer for a pen, then turn to the piece of notebook paper sitting on top. Below the first three entries, I add Mangalitsa—creates water. I’ve decided to use breeds of pigs for each of the trigger words, as they’re both something with which I’m familiar and unlikely to say in a casual conversation. I’ve had some rather embarrassing moments over the years involving forgotten spell triggers and friendly get-togethers.
I look over the list and read the words back to myself, trying to commit them to memory, then move for the door, intent on raiding the fridge for some ice cream. My hand is almost on the knob when I feel something scraping through my brain, followed by a loud Bang! from the next room. I wrench the door open and dart into the hall, shaking my head to stave off a sudden wave of dizziness. I spring past the bathroom and open the door to Nathan’s room. An expanding cloud of thin white smoke fills the air within, and little chips of plaster and drywall are still raining down. In the center of the room, Nathan’s lying on his back, coated in white powder, looking shocked. A dark circle surrounded by a spiderweb of branching cracks has been burned into the ceiling.
“What’s going on?” I shout. “Are you okay?”
“It worked,” he says in a hoarse whisper. He coughs and brushes some of the larger pieces of the ceiling off his shirt.
“What worked?” I say, moving over to him. “Can you stand?”
“I think so,” he says, reaching out an arm. I grab his hand and pull him up. “Thanks,” he says, shaking his head. Dust rains down as he does.
I pick a large paint chip out of his hair. “So…?” I say.
“It worked, Sara!” he says, seeming in awe of himself. “I tried to cast something and it worked! I’m actually casting spells. I’m a freaking wizard.”
I laugh and give his hair another brush. “Actually, you’re more of a cleric,” I say, correcting him, “because if you want to get technical, I cast that through you.”
“Killjoy,” he says, smirking.
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“Hey, it was still more than I could manage right now. I’m dead tired—just got done casting a spell of my own.”
“Wait, how does that work?” he asks, shaking out his shirt. “If it’s all you, then—”
“Magic is just a very special kind of belief, Nathan,” I say, shoving some plaster off his bed and sitting down. “It’s usually the playground of gods, but I’ve heard of some mortals who got in on the act through sheer dedication. When you cast that spell, you called on me to help you do it, but there was a part of you in it as well. Together, clerics and gods can become more than the sum of their parts.”
“I love this job!” he says. “That was just the fire seed we were practicing, too. What else can I do?”
I adore his enthusiasm, which makes it all the more disappointing that I have to dampen it. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be a whole lot for a while,” I say, feeling bad about it. “Remember, I’m really, really weak right now, and probably will be for months. For now, you’ll have to make do with the basics. I’m sorry.”
He waves a hand at me, seeming completely unfazed. “No big deal. I’m just glad I actually cast something. You want to go celebrate? We still need to make up that dinner.”
I smile, realizing he’s happy to just be able to use a little magic, regardless of how potent it may be. “Not tonight, sorry. I’m completely beat. Maybe this weekend?”
“Sure, so long as you don’t have any special events you need to hit at the park,” he says, knowing how hectic my schedule has been lately. “Oh, that reminds me—I finally got paid for that last website.”
“The one for the real estate lady who kept asking you to make it ‘pop’?” I ask. From everything Nathan has said about the field, Web designers must satisfy some of the world’s pickiest clientele. I imagine I’d only last a day or two of listening to people spout vague buzzwords while disparaging my efforts before I start trying to take a broadsword to their faces. I don’t know where he finds the patience.
He sighs. “Don’t remind me. I don’t even know how the last few were any different, but suddenly she was ecstatic about it, so hey—still a win.”
“Congratulations!” I say, getting up and clapping him on the shoulder. “Mastering the mystic arts and pleasing clueless clients. This really does call for a celebration.” He smiles at me. Then I point a finger straight up. “After you fix this, of course,” I say, returning a slightly nastier grin.
He follows my finger to stare at the blackened ceiling, and his smile fades. “I don’t suppose there’s a spell for that?” he asks hopefully.
“How many fat magi do you know?” I ask as I head out.
“What?”
“Magic isn’t meant for the lazy,” I reply, moving back to my room.
I close the door and survey the remnants of my latest arcane ritual, then groan as I realize I’ve forgotten my ice cream. I’m about to turn and walk all the way to the kitchen, berating myself for my absentmindedness, when I purse my lips as a thought strikes me. My last words to Nathan remind me that I do have a minor summoning spell already saved up for something like this.
Shh, don’t judge me. Everyone’s allowed to be a hypocrite. Especially gods.
“Bazna,” I whisper, concentrating on the pint of Cherry Garcia in our freezer.
There’s a subsonic hum as the spell activates, detaching itself from my body and burrowing its way under reality. A fraction of a second later, the air ripples around me and there’s a cacophonous sucking noise, like a giant trying to slurp a milk shake through a subway tunnel. Then it upshifts to a dainty pop! and the ice cream materializes in the air directly in front of me. I hold out my hands and catch it, beaming with glee.
Nathan flings the door open in that moment, obviously wondering what made the racket. He looks me up and down, focuses on the pint in my hands, and gives me an incredulous look. “Really?” he asks.
I give him a guilty smile. “Do as I say, not as I do?” I offer.
He rolls his eyes and is about to return to his own room when I realize something’s amiss. “Nate! Wait!” I say anxiously, calling his attention back.
“What? What’s wrong?” he asks, suddenly serious.
I hold up the ice cream. “Can you bring me a spoon?” I ask, the smile returning.
“Gods,” he groans, stomping off.
He returns with the spoon, of course. I even let him have some.
* * *
The next few days fall into the same pattern—collecting belief at the parks, training at Finemdi, and spell-casting at night. My next spell replaces the one I used to snag the ice cream, and the one after that is actually enough to knock me out for two solid hours when I finish casting it, but it’s also incredibly important to my plans—believe it or not, I’m going to use it to kill Impulse Station. I choose others based on what I see as I explore Finemdi, or when the whim strikes me. The facility is, as always, a convoluted and dreary place. I don’t know how so many gods decide to spend their lives here, though I have to admit I haven’t spent much time on the recreation level. Apparently there are an Olympic-sized swimming pool and a whole track-and-field setup, as well as an Internet café, library, arcade, and beauty salon, so maybe I’m missing out. A large part of me hates the idea of using any more of their amenities than I already have, though—it just feels dirty. The meals, however, are consistently spectacular, and they’ve forced me to admit my urge for rebellion ends somewhere around my stomach.
Eating there also gives me a chance to keep tabs on Samantha, who I never see outside the cafeteria. Even then, it’s from several tables’ distance as she eats in her corner of solitude. For the most part, I sneak glances at her as I continue my scheming with the Hawaiian sisters and do my best to keep away from the other gods at the facility. I figure the fewer people I have direct contact with, the fewer chances there will be for my plans to be discovered. Besides, the three girls are all right. They may be cursed with elemental flightiness, but they’re also friendly, good-natured ladies who share my disgust for those who would control us.
“Here’s the key card for the armory,” Hi‘iaka says in a fluttery whisper, placing a stenciled plastic rectangle on the table. “Poor guard wasn’t paying attention when a quiet zephyr pulled it off his desk and into an air vent.”
“Marvelous, little sister,” Nāmaka says, sweeping it off the table. “And you’re certain they have more of the needles Freya described in there?”
“Of course. You hear so many things when you control the wind,” Hi‘iaka says, pointing up with a finger. Locks of her animated black hair lift to twirl around its tip, spiraling in a slow-motion cyclone. “Just be careful—you need to prick someone with mortal blood for it to work, so use it on a hybrid or some other staffer.”
Nāmaka nods. “I’m certain I can find someone nearby.” She turns to me. “You’ll just need to make sure their defensive wards are down, or else the spell will fail.”
“Trust me, you’ll know when the wards are down,” I say. “That will be your cue to move, and for you to start the fireworks.” I nod at Pele.
Pele’s burning eyes flash. “I can’t wait,” she says. “It’ll be a challenge, this far from the Pacific Rim, but I think I have it in me.”
“Remember, we might not have the luxury of timing,” I say. “So all of you need to be ready for the signals. Be prepared to improvise.” I say this not only because having a date for the attack leaves us open to interception if someone finds out about our plans, but also because these three don’t strike me as ladies who live by a schedule. I’d rather keep their actions based on other events instead of a timetable.
“That’s always the best part!” Hi‘iaka says, hair billowing at her excitement. Nāmaka and Pele nod, seeming just as happy about the idea of winging it. Yes, I’ve definitely pegged these women correctly.
“So this is what you four talk about every day?” Samantha says, suddenly occupying a chair at our table.
“What the—”
I squawk. The Hawaiian sisters join me in making other sounds of alarm and confusion. I snap my head away to stare at the table in the far corner. Samantha is still there, slowly eating a salad.
“Calm down,” the Samantha in front of us says, glancing around. She nods at Hi‘iaka. “Whatever you’re doing to the air might not let anyone hear us, but everyone can still see what’s happening.” She pauses. “Well, okay, they won’t see me. But a quartet of goddesses freaking out for no obvious reason will draw more attention than you want.”
All of us halt our frantic movements and lean in, narrowing our eyes at her. We do it at practically the same time, and if I weren’t still trying to convince the startled Valkyrie inside me it’s not time to go into battle mode, I’d be somewhat amused by our synchronicity.
“How are you doing that?” Hi‘iaka asks, voicing the question on all of our minds.
Samantha snorts. “I’m in charge of divine admissions. That includes divine artifacts. I get to learn how all the toys work. This is just a bit of illusion dust, a tweaked helm of invisibility”—she knocks a fist against the side of her head, and her knuckles make a metallic clink about an inch from her temple—“and a lot of boredom.” She sighs. “Maybe some loneliness, too.”
“We really are sorry we had to stop—” Pele begins.
Samantha shakes her head. “Not your fault.” She’s quiet for a few awkward seconds. Then she looks at me with a smile. “Did you tell them?”
“Wasn’t my place,” I reply.
“I love you honorable ones,” she says. She glances at the puzzled faces of the Hawaiian girls and holds up a hand. “Personal stuff. Sara and I compared notes a few days ago, told each other a few secrets. I thought about it a lot, and I’ve decided I’d like to help.”
At this, we all break into big smiles, except for Nāmaka, who seems uncomfortable. “As much as I’d truly appreciate it,” she says, “there’s the little matter of your father.”
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