by Platt, Sean
He felt his power emanating, and without even thinking about what he was doing, reached out to brush the sphere with his fingers. They wrapped around it, and an almost violent energy exploded through him, even stronger than the last crystal had delivered — raw, powerful, and perhaps everlasting.
It felt as if Jacob could somehow tap into and harness the power of a sun.
He closed his eyes and savored the moment, feeling as if the stars were aligned to illuminate his destiny. It was his time to conquer this world. He felt something else, too, something he’d not even recognized within himself until the moment the sphere shined its light into his brain’s darkest recesses.
Jacob didn’t just want to save his people, he wanted to finally prove himself worthy of his father’s love. The father who had always mourned his lost sons, John and Caleb, and who had treated Jacob like less than flesh and blood. He’d always been an embarrassment to his father. But no longer, and not ever again.
Once he had the final crystal, nothing could stop him.
Where is it?
The sphere responded to his wonder, showing him a vision of the woman with the crystal: Hope.
Then it showed him where she was.
Jacob opened his eyes and gazed upon the fire consuming Duncan’s estate. That signal fire a portent of what was coming.
Yes, soon, the world will burn.
Thirty-Nine
John
John opened his eyes to total darkness, on his feet and ready to fight by the second blink.
He was in a small holding cell with a cot, a toilet, and a door. He closed his eyes trying to feel where he was.
John was in the Building, a 12-story office structure the FBI had sanctioned exclusively for Omega’s use. The ninth and tenth floors were devoted to a secret prison which no one other than the highest security clearances knew existed. Not even prisoners knew where they had been taken. They arrived with drugged heads stuffed in thick black sacks, just as John was sure he had. They left, if they were lucky enough to leave alive, the same way.
John’s cell had both a camera and speaker system used to monitor the prisoner, and a row of lights behind thick bullet-resistant glass. Like the lights at Cromwell’s, they were designed to kill his kind.
“Why am I in here?” John shouted, looking up at the camera.
A few moments later, Mike Mathews’ voice came over the speaker.
“Hello, John. I’ll be with you shortly.” Then, after 10 minutes the metal door slid open and Mathews stepped into the room. He was wearing his field uniform, covered head to toe in black, and an enclosed helmet with speakers on the side designed to protect him from John’s touch. He had no weapon.
The door closed.
“What the hell is going on?” John said.
“I’d like to ask you the same thing. One minute you were storming into Shadow’s hotel room, and the next you two were gone,” Mathews’ voice said through the speakers. His visor was thick black, but John didn’t need to see through to know the man’s cold stare was fixed on him.
“What are you saying?” John asked, knowing exactly what Mathews was implying.
“I’d like to know how you two escaped.”
“We didn’t escape. He took me against my will, through a portal.”
“A portal?”
“Yes,” John said.
“How the hell did he create a portal? Is he working with Jacob?”
“I don’t know. But it wasn’t the kind that travels between worlds. It brought us from the hotel to somewhere else, some place he had set up, a well in the middle of some field.”
“So, you just teleported, then?” Mathews asked skeptically.
“Do you have another explanation for how we got out of there?”
After a moment of silence, Mathews said, “Did you, or your Shadow friend, kill Duncan Alderman?”
“Shadow’s not my friend. And no,” John said, knowing he probably should have acted surprised to learn of Duncan’s death. Now it was too late.
“Why did you kill Cromwell?”
John swallowed.
I knew we shouldn’t have left his wife alive. Shit.
“Well?” said Mathews, tapping his foot.
“It was an accident.”
“That’s not what Cromwell’s wife said. She said you were there looking for information. Specifically, you were looking for Hope. Tell me, John, why would you be looking for Hope? You know we have our eye on her, and that everything is fine. She’s safe so long as you cooperate. So why the search? Were you planning on ending our arrangement?”
John wanted to tell him she was in danger, but couldn’t tell Mathews that Hope was a vessel without him dragging her in, and probably ordering her killed to prevent Jacob from getting the crystal.
John told Mathews the closest thing to the truth he could afford.
“Jacob’s back, and he knows my weakness is Hope. He will target her, and though you, and some others, are top-notch agents, I can’t say the same for everyone in the FBI. You can’t guarantee her safety; I can.”
Mathews leaned closer, probably trying to read John’s honesty through the visor’s scanners. “Send Skinner in,” he said, but not to John.
Skinner was the son of an Otherworlder, gifted Halfworlder with powers to probe people’s minds. He’d been co-opted to work for Omega to avoid detention. Supposedly, he’d taken to betraying his kind with glee, though there were plenty, such as Shadow, who accused John of the same thing.
The door opened and Skinner stepped inside. He was tall and thin, a creepy nightmare with closely cropped, jet-black hair and dark circles ringing cavernous eyes. He seemed mid-fifties, but John figured he had to be a century older at least.
“Not too close,” Mathews said, warning Skinner to avoid John’s touch.
“I know,” Skinner said in a light German accent.
“Find out what he’s hiding.”
John tried not to appear nervous. It was possible that Skinner couldn’t probe him, in which case he might be able to escape further interrogation.
“Okay,” Skinner said, closing his eyes.
John felt the man’s touch as if he were laying fingers inside his skull, probing for fault lines in his brain. He erected psychic barriers inside his mind, keeping his defenses high and hiding Hope’s secret.
Mathews said, “So, what was your plan, John? Find Hope and run away together, live happily ever after while Jacob went about killing whomever he wanted? Was that it?”
John knew what Mathews was trying to do — distract him with discussion so he couldn’t maintain his defenses. John was far too skilled in psychic warfare, able to carry on full conversations while fending off attempted intrusions for Mathews’ tactics to matter.
“I hadn’t thought it out that far. My priority is keeping Hope safe. After I gave her shelter, I meant to continue tracking Jacob. I will continue.”
“How do I know you’re not working with him?” Mathews asked.
“I’m not responding to stupid questions.”
John continued resisting Skinner’s attempts to crack his mind until Skinner finally turned to Mathews.
“He’s fighting me.”
“Oh, is he? Well then, our friend John must have something to hide.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Then why don’t you open wide and let Skinner in?”
“Sorry,” John said. “I don’t let anyone in my head.”
“We’ll see about that.” Mathews reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black rectangle — a remote of some sort.
Mathews thumbed a red button on the remote and the rows of special lights blazed on above.
John fell to his knees in agony as his skin caught fire from inside. “Stop!” he screamed.
Mathews clicked off the lights. John stayed on his knees, body shaking in torment and pain. Skinner had shattered the gauzy wall at the edge of his defenses. John clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes tight tryin
g to repel him, but the burning was rot to his resistance.
Skinner was in.
John felt the man seize upon the information he was most trying to hide. And then Skinner was out.
As his pain receded, John watched the crimson skin on his arms slowly heal.
Skinner turned to Mathews. “He’s searching for vessels — people with crystals stuck in their flesh. Five crystals holding the soul of the Last Great Wizard from Otherworld. The person who pieces them together controls the wizard’s power. Jacob is hunting the vessels, then killing each to retrieve the crystals. Hope is on the list.”
John glared at Skinner, wanting to sink his fingers into the bastard’s flesh.
“Thank you,” Mathews said. “You’re excused.”
“Yes, sir.” Skinner nodded, the German accent crisp on his lips. He left the room, not daring to meet John’s stare.
Mathews stepped closer to John, looking down at him, almost daring him to make a move. John considered it, but the man’s finger was on the button, and the man had grown sadistic enough to fry him for laughs.
“So, that’s why you want to find Hope. It’s all so perfectly clear now. Interesting.”
“You have to bring her here,” John said. “If Jacob gets to her, she’s dead.”
“Yes, yes, good idea. She should be here.”
Mathews fell several steps from John, then spoke into his helmet radio. “Get me Agent Overton.” Moments later, Mathews was talking to Agent Overton, instructing him to bring Hannah to The Building. “If she resists in any way, kill her immediately.”
John went to strike, but wasn’t fast enough. Mathews pushed the button again and flooded the room with lethal light, sending John back to the floor in crippling pain.
Mathews clicked the lights off, then leaned down to John and calmly said, “Your free ride is finished, John. You had exactly two friends in the Agency looking out for you, and, as it so happens, both Duncan and Cromwell are now dead. That means a new boss. Are you familiar with Bernard Walsh? He’s now in charge of The Guardians, and unlike his predecessor, Walsh understands that this job leaves zero room for misplaced sentimentality.”
John rode out the pain, rocking back and forth on the floor as Mathews continued. “None of this would have happened if Duncan had done the right thing when it had to be done. But I assure you, John, you’ll not see the same mistake from me. When it’s time to choose between one life and millions, I won’t falter.”
John forced himself into action through the pain. He tried to reach out, but his attempt fell pathetically short.
Mathews stepped away from John, as if trying to evade a swatting old cat. “Goodbye, John. I’d like to say it was great working with you, but we both know a lie when we hear it.”
Mathews left just as John managed to stand.
The door closed and locked.
John wondered why Mathews hadn’t simply killed him, and figured he either still needed him alive, or Mathews wasn’t able to make the call for John’s death — yet.
But there was also a third (ugly) option: The torture was too fun for Mathews to end.
Forty
Hannah
Hannah was sitting on the apartment couch where she and Greg were sequestered, trying to relax despite her frayed nerves, when Greg got a call from his bosses. He left the apartment to take it. She pressed her back into the cushions, waiting through the anxiety that sat like lead in her stomach.
As her foot tapped the carpet a thousand times, waiting for Greg to return and tell her what was going on, Hannah expected her inner voice to chime in with more doomsaying. But that voice was uncharacteristically quiet, and had been since their arrival a few hours earlier.
The door finally opened. Greg said, “We’ve gotta go. The Agency wants us in Washington immediately.”
She wasn’t sure if it was the look in his eyes or a simple fear of the unknown, but Hannah felt as if she were about to be strapped into a long and terrible ride without any escape.
“Washington? For how long?”
“Washington State, not D.C. My division is headquartered up there. As for how long, I don’t know.”
“But what about the shop? I need to call Jenny and update her.”
“Jenny’s not expecting you back until next week, so we can wait until we arrive before doing anything else or making any other decisions. Okay?”
“Okay,” Hannah agreed. “Why are we going to Washington? Did something happen with John?”
“I don’t know. Nobody’s saying much, but they were insistent that we leave immediately. That means they think you’re in danger.”
They drove to a private airfield where a small private Agency jet waited.
They sat with an Agent Henry, a tall Marine-looking black man with a charcoal suit, a granite jaw, and no trace of a smile.
They rode in silence as Hannah tried to calm her jangling nerves, both from the flight, and all that was happening so quickly. The world was a web of confusion around her, each second another sliver of proof that everything was wrong and nothing would ever be right again.
She drew long breaths, in and out and over and over, trying not to cry as she gently dug fingers into her thighs and lightly bounced her heels against the floor. Through every mile of her fear, she tried to find the voice. But Hannah’s inner whisper, that other voice that had led her down this path, was silent.
You sure had a lot to say before!
I know you’re there because I’m here.
Why won’t you answer me?
If something happens to me, then it happens to you, too. And if something happens to US, it’s all your fault.
Hello?
Even after Greg spoke, Hannah’s whisper stayed silent through his story.
“How are you doing over there?” Greg asked, friendly.
“Fine. I guess.”
“I’m sorry about all of this.” Greg looked at the clouds outside the window rather than her, but it was hard for Hannah to doubt the apology lining his voice, despite his many lies.
She was tempted to answer his sorry with an, “It’s okay,” but she was far from fine, and didn’t feel obligated to protect his feelings. So Hannah said nothing.
His eyes held the clouds as he spoke. “I didn’t plan for any of this.”
Hannah stared down at her hands in her lap, still silent.
It was hard to separate truth from its opposite. There was so much of Greg to love, but knowing what was real now felt impossible. The meaning of true had softened, and truth told with ill intent could be worse than a lie.
Hannah thought back on the years of Greg’s countless compliments; the many times he practically sang gospels about how lucky he was to have a girl like her in his life. He would compliment the way she looked, the way she smiled, the way she could turn any handful of flowers — from garden to bucket — so beautiful. He would stare into her eyes, steal glances at her face and body, hungry to kiss her through the length of his gaze. He always went out of his way to make her happy, like the way he slipped notes into her lunch bag, which she often found stuck to the bottom of her see-through microwavable containers. At first she would only see them after she finished her lunch, but Greg had done it so often that Hannah was now trained to look first.
The hardest part about their flight, besides heading into her nightmare’s next chapter, was that every affectionate gesture, kiss on the cheek, or midnight nibble now seemed somehow premeditated or possibly insidious, down to the day they met.
Clouds thinned, and snowy ground and city came into view below. Greg kept staring out the window while Agent Henry read Popular Science.
Something jarred inside her, what felt like a memory, or a glimpse from a remembered dream, loose in her mind.
They were standing on the beach, the warm sunshine kissing her skin, the cool, salty breeze blowing his long hair. His eyes met hers. She asked what he was thinking about. He was always so quiet and distant, his thoughts far away. He’d usually answ
er with nothing, even though she never believed him. This time he said something different.
“You. It’s weird. I never really felt like there was something missing from my life. I never felt like I was waiting for the right person to come along. But now I realize just how empty I was before I met you. And how even though I didn’t know it, I was waiting for someone — you, Hope.”
A chill ran down her spine as Greg’s voice dragged her back to reality.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Hannah said. “I guess.”
They took a truck from the airfield to a nondescript office park with a 12-story mirrored building that seemed like a thousand other such buildings, seen back home and during their drive. Yet, Hannah felt cloaked in an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
There was something about the office park, the building itself, or …
Hannah swallowed, realizing it wasn’t the park or the building or anything else.
It was John.
Her inner whisper returned.
“He’s here.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Greg asked, pulling the car into a space in front of the building.
“Positive,” Hannah said.
Forty-One
Abigail
Abigail stood frozen in horror after she killed Katya. She panicked, not knowing where to go or what to do. She had now murdered four innocent people, five if you counted Karen McKenna, which, of course, Abigail did.
I’m a monster.
Abigail thought about calling Larry, telling him what had happened, but the thought of his probable response was terrifying. He would be furious, and worse, afraid of her. She could feel his fear after she’d killed the family down the street and set their house on fire. Larry would never hurt her feelings by saying so out loud, but part of him had to be wondering when she might kill him. Abigail wouldn’t be surprised if Larry started locking his door when he went to sleep.