by Claudia Gray
That sounded about right. Theo has an ego the size of the Golden Gate Bridge. His saving grace is that he’s as ready to admire others as he is to admire himself.
Paul spoke so tentatively, like he’d never tried to say any of this out loud before and didn’t know how. “I’d never gone out to a club before Theo took me. Never even drank a beer. So he took me out with him. He called it ‘remedial adolescence.’”
No wonder Paul idolized Theo. But he didn’t know the other Theo. Not like I did. I was the one who’d been led into Triad headquarters for Wyatt Conley to take captive, the one who was physically attacked in a submarine. The one Theo kissed and claimed to care about while he was faking Dad’s death and framing Paul for the murder.
Theo has so much goodness in him—but there’s darkness there too. Even that afternoon, when I was more afraid for him than I’d ever been, I couldn’t help questioning how much the Triadverse’s Theo and our own have in common.
Paul had no such doubts. His loyalty to Theo was, and is, absolute. If he had to break Wyatt Conley’s truce to save Theo, so be it.
Conley had said only that we had to stay out of the Triadverse. But the Triadverse invented Nightthief—which meant if any cure or treatment existed, that was the only world where we’d be able to find it.
First the two of us headed back to Paul’s dorm room. Since we had no idea how long his journey would be, we needed him to leave from a location that could be sealed off to be sure nobody was in the wrong place when he returned, and his physical body once again started interacting with our universe. Like, if he left from our couch, but somebody was sitting on that couch the moment he came back—my parents aren’t one hundred percent certain what would happen, but it could lead to both bodies being fused together in a very permanent, possibly fatal, and definitely gross way.
By traveling from his dorm room and having me lock the door behind me, Paul was doing his part to make sure we never found out whether that fusion thing would be for real.
We got him settled on his bed, stretched out and comfortable; after a few rough landings in other dimensions, you learn the value of a soft reentry. I sat beside him and leaned over so that our faces nearly touched.
“If you think Conley’s onto you—even for a second—come back,” I pleaded. “We can figure out other ways of getting a cure.”
“Not without bargaining for it, and that’s not going to happen.” Paul brushed a curl away from my cheek. In almost a whisper—because he was still shy about saying it—he told me, “I love you.”
“And I love you. In any world, any universe.”
His smile was crooked. “This world is enough.” Then he became more serious. “Sometimes I look at you, and I think—if I didn’t know we shared a destiny, if I hadn’t seen the proof for myself, I’d never believe this was real. That you could love me as much as I love you.”
I’ve felt exactly the same. “We do share a destiny. We’re meant to be. Which means you’re meant to come back to me. Got it?”
“Got it.” When Paul settled his hands on his chest, he put his fingers on his Firebird. Our eyes met, and then—
Then nothing. Paul didn’t vanish; there was no light, no pop, no sign that he had even been there. Of course, his body remained in our dimension, remains there still, right on his dorm-room bed, but unseen, untouchable. No scientific instrument on Earth could find it.
Slowly I rested my hand on the space where he’d lain, where only a moment before I would’ve been able to feel his heartbeat. His blanket was still warm. I told myself that Paul could do anything, that he’d save Theo and come back home.
But Conley was waiting for him. Even as I pressed my palm against the warmth Paul had left behind, his soul was being torn apart.
5
AFTER MY PARENTS FINISHED CHEWING ME OUT FOR NOT telling them about Paul’s trip to the Triadverse to find a cure for Theo, they settled in with me for the wait.
“Paul said he’d come back after twenty-four hours,” I told them as we sat up late on the back deck. “Or as close to it as he can manage. Even if he hasn’t found a cure for Theo yet, he’ll check back in just to let us know he’s safe.”
“Twenty-four hours!” My father shook his head, expression grim. “If Conley’s figured out how to monitor dimensional traffic, his people could be on Paul within minutes.”
“But that dimension’s Paul already got away from Triad,” I protested. “He escaped to Ecuador.”
This placated my dad not at all. “You think a global tech mogul like Wyatt Conley can’t hire operatives in Ecuador?”
Mom laid her hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Henry, please. This isn’t helping.”
I imagined Paul being held prisoner. Being interrogated by men to whom the Geneva Convention wouldn’t apply. My stomach cramped, as if in sympathetic pain. Had we been stupid to leave my parents out of it? I said, “Could you have done something to help him get into the Triadverse without being detected?”
“Nothing Paul isn’t capable of doing himself,” my mother replied. “He has a chance. Paul knew the odds. He did this to help his best friend. We should respect his decision.”
She was speaking to my father then, who didn’t reply. I figured it would be a long time before we were forgiven—or, at least, that it wouldn’t happen until Paul had given Theo a miracle cure that restored him to health.
But it didn’t take that long.
By the time thirty-six hours had passed and Paul still hadn’t returned, Dad was beyond yelling at me about it. Like the rest of us, he was too frightened for that.
“They wouldn’t kill him,” I said, pacing through the great room. “Would they?”
“Unlikely. Conley would be a fool to simply eliminate Paul rather than taking him captive as leverage.” My mother turned out to have an instinct for criminal behavior. “Yet Conley would also be foolish not to tell us he’s taken Paul captive. My instinct is therefore to assume that Paul remains at liberty. But if he is free, why hasn’t he returned?”
“Maybe he’s in the heart of working on Theo’s cure,” Dad said.
“Maybe,” I repeated. But none of us believed it.
Two full days after Paul’s journey into the Triadverse, none of us had slept more than a couple of hours at a time. Dad now believed Conley had captured Paul but was making us sweat it out; Mom theorized that Paul could have experienced a Firebird malfunction.
In either case, we knew there was only one way to find out for sure.
“I should be the one to go,” my father said. “I’ve left these travels to the young ones for long enough.”
“Dad, no. I’m the perfect traveler. It should be me.”
For the past three and a half months, Paul and I had periodically visited brand-new universes, to further test the Firebirds and to see more of the multiverse’s wonders. Mostly I saw a lot of dimensions very similar to my own, but where my parents were working on different research, teaching at a different university, et cetera. But even those worlds could offer a wealth of data the Firebird project team could use. I went because I could travel more effectively than anyone else; Paul went with me because he had the experience, and because it was dangerous to travel alone.
Now, however, I would have to make a trip on my own—the riskiest one of all.
Mom sat at the rainbow table, her hands steepled in front of her. “You go in. You immediately use the locator function to find Paul. As soon as you know where he is, you return and give us the full report. We’ll decide how to proceed from there.”
“Okay.” Did that mean actually reach Paul if I could, or just get the information? I decided I’d make that decision when I arrived in the Triadverse.
“If Paul’s Firebird malfunctioned,” Mom continued, “he may have tried to return to our universe but instead traveled to a new dimension. Your Firebird is set to track his. You’ll be able to follow in his dimensional footsteps, so to speak—to travel to whatever world he might have ended up in.”
/> “Please.” Dad’s voice broke. “Let me be the one to do this. For all three of you to be in danger at once—”
My parents love Paul and Theo only slightly less than they love Josie and me. They’re the sons Mom and Dad never had. I knew they were as afraid for Paul as I was, but seeing my father this upset ripped me open inside. “Dad, I can do this better than anyone else. I have the ability; I have the experience. Meanwhile, you have the actual scientific knowledge about the Firebirds. If you go, and Conley winds up capturing you, too? We’re going to be totally screwed.”
This made him laugh a little, as it was meant to. I knew I couldn’t make this situation easier for any of us, but at least I could get my father to accept what had to be done.
Or maybe not. Maybe Dad still hated the idea of my going to rescue Paul as much as he ever had. But he didn’t object again, not even in the moment when I embraced them both and leaped out of my own world—
—and thudded into my Triadverse self, who was at a coffee shop, staring at her phone. I gripped the side of the table and looked around, half expecting Triad goons to barge through the door with tasers. Instead, I only saw the usual crowd of people tapping on laptops or talking over their cappuccinos.
Immediately I used the Firebird locator function—and it came up zero. My Paul was nowhere in this dimension.
At that moment, it seemed like good news. Conley hadn’t captured Paul! It was just a Firebird malfunction, like Mom said. With a smile on my face, I set the tracker into motion, so the Firebird would travel along Paul’s path and take me to him.
Which is how I wound up in medieval Rome, questioning everyone I could find about “Paolo Markov of Russia” while trying to dodge accusations of witchcraft.
How I ended up here, and now, bargaining with Wyatt Conley for Theo’s cure and Paul’s soul.
Cardinal Conley gets to his feet and straightens himself. It hits me for the first time how ridiculous Wyatt Conley looks in clerical robes. It seems as if no universe could ever allow him to be a man of the cloth; whatever else Conley is, he’s not a religious, moral person. Then again, in the Middle Ages, most cardinals weren’t. The position let men gain tremendous influence and political power. No wonder this universe’s Conley became a cardinal.
As solemnly as the church elder he pretends to be, Conley says, “If you’re worrying about being splintered yourself, Marguerite, let me put your mind at ease. Perfect travelers can’t splinter—it’s yet another of our advantages. But generally, a soul can be broken into as many pieces as you’d like. Dozens, even hundreds.”
The horror dizzies me. Is Paul torn apart even now, scattered across the entire multiverse?
“Don’t worry,” Conley says, in a tone that could be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know him well. His red robes look almost satanic in the firelight. “I went easy on you, didn’t smash him up too much. Four pieces, in four different dimensions. You just rescued the first one! See how easy it is? I gave you this splinter as a sign of good faith.”
Does he want me to thank him? “What do I have to do to get the coordinates for the other three dimensions?” Three more pieces of Paul’s soul. Three more worlds I have to find, and three more rescue missions.
Disgustingly satisfied with himself, Conley says, “I have a few errands for you.”
There it is—Triad Corporation’s iron fist closing around me.
But if this is the price of Paul’s soul, I have to pay.
“Let me explain precisely what I need.” Conley stands up straighter; his cardinal’s robes lend him an authority he doesn’t deserve. “Out there in the multiverse are two other dimensions where your parents are very close to developing Firebird technology. I would prefer that they didn’t.”
I fold my arms. “You mean you want to have all the power.”
“Who wouldn’t?” He shrugs. “Here’s how this is going to work. I have two dimensions working on Firebird research that need to be sabotaged as soon as possible. The next two splinters of Paul’s soul are hidden in those dimensions.” Conley’s thin fingers point at my own Firebird locket. “If you allow it, I can program your Firebird. You’ll receive the coordinates for the first of those dimensions—as well as a program you can use as a computer virus to destroy your parents’ research and your most valuable hardware.”
“How do I collect each splinter?” I clutch the spare Firebird more tightly. “The same way I’d give him a reminder? Just hold it against him, hit the combination on the locket?”
“Exactly. See? Easy as pie.”
Someday, when I have the luxury, I’m going to punch Wyatt Conley in the face. Hard.
Oblivious to my anger—or amused by it—Conley continues, “Collecting the second splinter of Paul’s soul will unlock the coordinates for the next dimension I need you to sabotage. Lather, rinse, repeat. Once you’ve done what I need you to do in each dimension, and gathered those two splinters, then you’ll come to the home office. Coordinates will be programmed into your Firebird with the rest.”
“The home office?” He must mean the Triadverse. “I don’t want to go there.”
“I have to check your work. When I go through your Firebird data, I’ll know whether you deployed the virus. If you’ve been a good girl—”
If there is any phrase I hate more than “good girl,” I don’t know what it is, and the words sound even more loathsome coming from Conley.
“—and you’ve stalled those dimensions’ research for a while, I’ll give you both the formula for Theo’s treatment and the coordinates for the final splinter of Paul’s soul. That final splinter is my insurance, you see. Your job is quite simple.”
Like it would ever be “simple” for me to betray my parents, much less while I’m afraid for both Paul’s and Theo’s lives. “You could have sent anyone to be your saboteur, or gone yourself.”
“There are dimensions where my reach is . . . limited.” It seems to gall Conley that he has to admit that he’s not omnipotent. “And yes, I could send certain other emissaries, but in order to do the kind of tricky work I’m looking for, they’d have to take Nightthief for a very, very long time. You know what that does to people now, don’t you?”
I remember Theo thrashing on our deck, body in spasm, skin pale. “Yes, I do.”
“We didn’t expect this one side effect. See, after a while, exposure to Nightthief takes away your ability to dream—hence the name. Sleep researchers still aren’t sure exactly why the ability to dream is so vitally important, but it is. Once you’ve lost it . . . let’s say mental processes start to break down rapidly, and dramatically.”
There’s something uniquely cruel about Theo dying because Wyatt Conley will no longer let him dream.
“As for the physiological damage—well, I don’t have to fill you in on that, do I? You’ve found out for yourself what Nightthief does to the lungs, the muscles, et cetera. But don’t worry about that. The lack of REM sleep will kill Theo before any of the rest progresses much further.” Conley smiles, though I don’t know what he thinks is so funny. I imagine taking one of the swords from the castle guards outside and stabbing it straight into his gut. He continues, “So, to sum up, do these errands for me, and in return, you get not one but two grand prizes. Once you report in to the home office, I’ll give you the formula for a solution that should ease Theo’s symptoms, maybe even reverse them.”
“That doesn’t sound like a cure.” If Conley intends to keep Theo sick—use him as a kind of hostage—I swear I’ll go for one of the swords right now.
Instead, Conley becomes serious and—possibly—sincere. “Marguerite, this is the best we have. If I could cure Nightthief exposure quickly, I wouldn’t need you, would I? But this treatment gives him a chance to heal. Keep treating him, and eventually, his body’s immune system should take care of the rest.”
Should. Not will. Still, I believe he’s telling the truth, only because he really wouldn’t need me if he had a cure.
Even more earnestly,
Conley says, “And at the home office, I’ll also give you the coordinates for the final splinter of Paul’s soul—for the universe where you can put him together again. No errands to run there; that dimension isn’t one of my problems. You can just go get Paul and bring him home. Sound good?”
I imagine reawakening Paul, holding him in my arms, and telling him I’ll never let him go. I need that even more than Conley will guess—more than I can ever let him know. “It sounds . . . necessary.”
There’s that smirk again. “Is that a yes?”
Someday, I’m going to make Wyatt Conley sorry he ever screwed around with us. For now I have to play along. “Yes. Now give me what I need to get the job done.”
He holds out his hands to gesture at the stone walls and flaming torches. “I’ll give you the data, but I need a little more sophisticated setup than this. Shall we return to your home turf? I can transmit the first coordinates from there.”
My dimension, he means. I’m relieved to hear him suggest it. Mom and Dad deserve to know what’s going on. By now they must be frantic. “Okay.”
Conley takes his own Firebird from the collar of his robe. With its intricate design and dull bronze color, his Firebird looks . . . mysterious. More antique than cutting edge. It seems to belong to this dimension more than our own. “Shall we?”
“I want to say goodbye to Paul. This Paul.”
“You get so sentimental about the duplicates,” Conley says, shaking his head. “But I won’t tease you about it. My other self is just as bad.”
That’s definitely not the vibe I’ve gotten from our world’s Conley, but whatever. “Besides, you need to give that order protecting my parents. From the ‘witchcraft’ mobs. Right?”
“Oh, right! You got it.” He thumps the side of his head, like Duh. “I’ll talk to Her Holiness right away. Pope Martha the Third. Rumor has it she puts our Borgias to shame.” As he begins to walk away, Conley adds, “Listen, someday, when you’re on board with this and we’ve been working together for a while, you and I will look back on this and laugh.”