“About time.”
A rail-thin Asian girl who had been hanging out in the shade of one of the palm trees smoking a cigarette from a sleek gold-plated holder cut them off before they could enter the palace. The guards eyeballed this girl in the same uneasy way as they did Einar and Taylor, which meant she must be Garde. Like Taylor, she wore a hijab, although hers was decorated with frolicking seahorses. The new arrival wore high heels that made Taylor’s feet ache in sympathy, a half blazer and a sleek pencil skirt. Her nails were painted red and black to match her outfit. Although she looked only a year or two her senior, Taylor immediately felt like this girl was much older.
“Jiao,” Einar said by way of greeting. When he attempted to walk around her, the girl simply fell into step with him. She completely ignored Taylor.
“We need to talk.”
“Do we?”
“You told me, you promised me, that the Foundation would get my family out of Shenzhen.”
“It’ll happen,” Einar said with a sigh. “You need to be patient.”
Taylor got the feeling this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation.
They entered the palace, Jiao’s heels echoing loudly against the marble floors. The air was much cooler in here. Taylor tried to keep track of her surroundings—paintings that probably belonged in museums, dozens of rooms, more and more guards—while also listening to Einar and Jiao.
“It’s been months,” Jiao said sharply.
“Extractions take time,” Einar replied. “I promise. I’ll look into it.”
“You’d better,” Jiao said. “Tell that British gao bizi this is the last assignment I’m taking until they keep their end of the bargain.”
Einar nodded stiffly and said nothing. Jiao flicked a glance over her shoulder, sizing Taylor up in a split second.
“This is the new girl? She’s supposed to put us over the top?”
“Yes,” Einar replied.
“Hmpf.” Jiao gave Taylor another look, then turned back to Einar. “Where’s Rabiya?”
“Couldn’t make it.”
Jiao studied Einar for a moment, obviously hoping he would elaborate. Taylor volunteered no information. If she was looking for an ally to help her escape, it wouldn’t be this girl. She almost seemed like more of a shark than Einar.
“Wonderful conversation as always, Einar,” Jiao said bitterly, then sped up her walk down the palace’s domed hallway. She knew where she was going and didn’t want to arrive at the same time as them.
After a moment, Taylor chuckled. Einar looked in her direction, lips pursed.
“I finally get it,” Taylor said.
“Get what?”
“There used to be this clique in my school, the mean girls from a couple grades above me. They all worked in the same store at the mall. This—well, you probably don’t have it in Iceland. It’s like a popular store where they sell distressed jeans and sweatshirts with big store logos stitched into them.”
Up ahead, Jiao pushed open a set of hand-carved double doors and entered the room at the end of the hall. Einar slowed down and then stopped, turning to face Taylor. The guards following them—herding them, really—stopped a respectable distance back.
“Please get to the point,” Einar said.
“Okay. These girls were real tight until one of them got promoted to supervisor and then she got all serious, bossing the other ones around, basically acting like a huge tool. A little power went right to her head.” She pointed at Einar. “That’s you, man. You’re like . . . an assistant manager. How lame is that?”
Einar closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them. “Are you finished?”
“Well, the moral of the story is that the store went out of business and they all had to find new summer jobs, but their friendships were already totally ruined,” Taylor said with a bright smile. “So, take that for what it’s worth.”
Einar took Taylor by the arm and led her towards the room Jiao had gone into. “These attempts to get under my skin won’t get you anywhere,” he said. “I’m not some silly bitch from your high school.”
“I’m not trying to get under your skin,” Taylor insisted. “I’m trying to make you see how dumb your situation is.”
“Shut up, now,” Einar commanded.
Einar ushered her through the double doors. It took Taylor’s eyes a moment to adjust—the rest of the palace had been soaked through with sunlight, but this room was kept purposefully dim, all the curtains drawn, candles flickering in wall sconces. The room was huge, with a domed ceiling that featured a chipped mosaic of birds soaring through trees. Incense burned in one corner where a group of women were gathered, all of them covered head to toe, on their knees, foreheads to the ground in prayer. Spread out around the room were more guards with more guns. Taylor swallowed.
An older man with a thick white beard sat at a small table, a goblet of dark wine not far from his hand. He wore a robe of gold and white and Taylor could tell immediately that he was in charge here, the mood of the room seeming to bend around him. This must be the sheikh. He gave both her and Einar a stern look when they entered, his fingers drumming on the table, but said nothing. At his side was an Arabian woman, not wearing the head-to-toe coverings of the group in the corner, but dressed in a hijab and lab coat. A doctor of the traditional variety. She crouched next to the older man and showed him a chart, explaining something in Arabic.
“We’re late,” Einar said quietly to Taylor.
“I got that impression.”
Taylor’s attention soon turned to the king-size canopy bed that dominated the center of the room. Laid up there was the sick prince. He looked like a younger and handsomer version of the sheikh. His beard and hair were clipped meticulously. Unlike the healthy olive bronze of his father and bodyguards, the prince’s skin was ashen, his cheeks hollow, his body pointy and emaciated beneath the sheets. He was hooked up to an array of medical equipment, the steady beeps and hums creating a strange chorus with the prayers from the back of the room. If not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, Taylor would have thought the prince to be dead.
Jiao already stood at the prince’s bedside. “Hurry up, new girl,” she said.
There were two other young people around the prince’s bedside. The first was a heavyset boy with a mane of curly hair. His eyes were red-rimmed, the side of his face discolored by recent bruises. He glanced up at Taylor skittishly, then quickly looked away. Another prisoner of the Foundation. Taylor remembered Isabela mentioning a healer who had graduated to Earth Garde, an Italian guy . . . could this be him? Vincent, she thought his name was.
Across from Vincent was an even younger boy with dusky skin, a shock of bright white hair and no legs. He sat in a wheelchair and seemed completely out of it—his head lolled from side to side, his eyes unfocused. A pair of strange-looking microchips were stuck to his temples. A conservatively dressed older woman stood behind the wheelchair, her hand resting gently on the boy’s shoulder. Taylor found herself staring at this poor soul, sympathy mixing with apprehension.
“The Foundation is generous,” Einar said in her ear, startling Taylor. “But, as you see, they can also be cruel.”
He pushed her towards the prince’s bedside. Taylor ending up standing at the foot of the bed, Jiao at the head, the two boys on either side. Taylor glanced nervously at the two traumatized boys, at least until Jiao snapped her fingers.
“Focus up,” she barked. “Follow my energy.”
Taylor’s brow furrowed. “Follow your . . . I’m sorry. I’ve never done this with a group before.”
She sensed the sheikh shift impatiently behind her, but ignored him.
Jiao rolled her eyes. “You’ll know what to do once we get started.” She gestured in the crippled boy’s direction. “Even a vegetable can do it.”
Paying no attention to Jiao’s remark, the woman handling the wheelchair bent down and whispered something in the legless boy’s ear. Robotically, he reached out and clasped
the wrist of the sleeping prince. Vincent, still avoiding Taylor’s gaze, did the same with the prince’s other arm.
“See?” Jiao said, and set her hands on either side of the prince’s face. She closed her eyes and went to work.
Taylor could sense all of them using their Legacies. The rest of the people in the room might have been blind to it, but to Taylor, the healing energy gave off a warm aura.
Carefully, she moved the sheet aside, and readied her hands over the prince’s feet.
She sensed movement. The prince had opened his eyes. He stared, blinking, at Taylor, and a small smile formed on his lips. He looked almost peaceful. There was a kindness in his expression, a gentleness.
“Are you a good person?”
The words popped out before Taylor could stop them. She sensed a restless shifting from the many guards in the room and felt Einar step up behind her. Meanwhile, the sheikh’s fingers suddenly stopped their drumming on the table.
The prince struggled to work moisture into his mouth. “. . . What?”
“Are you a good person?” Taylor repeated. “Because, you know, all of us were basically kidnapped to heal you. Some of us probably tortured. So, I want to know if you’re, like, worth the trouble . . .”
Vincent trembled, but pretended not to hear, his eyes closed. The legless boy remained slumped over the prince, pouring his healing energy out. His handler glared daggers at Taylor. Jiao slowly opened her eyes, her lips curled in disdain.
The prince peered around Taylor, searching for his father. He looked confused. Something wordless passed between him and his father. Finally, he looked back at her and slowly shook his head.
“I . . . I cannot answer that,” the prince said.
“Well, think about it when you’re better,” Taylor said. “Because this Foundation thing is totally fucked and somebody needs to do something about it.”
With that, Taylor closed her eyes and clasped the prince’s feet. She sensed the sickness lurking within him, just as she sensed three pulsing beacons of light trying to burn it away. She added her healing energy, giving as much as she could, as if her life and not the prince’s depended upon it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CALEB CRANE
APACHE JACK’S, NEW MEXICO
HIDDEN IN THE WOODS, THEY WATCHED APACHE Jack’s in uneasy silence. The Harvesters appeared to have finished preparations on their snake effigy; a handful of them were gathered around the wooden structure, some holding torches, eager for whatever came next. Even more were hanging around on the bar’s back deck.
Caleb remembered a scene from when he was fourteen and was called by his oldest brother to pick him up from one of the bars nearby the base. He wasn’t even old enough to drive, but he’d snuck away regardless under threat of catching a beating if he didn’t. The atmosphere there—drunk people looking for trouble—reminded him a lot of the one at Apache Jack’s.
Isabela had been gone twenty minutes.
We shouldn’t have let her go in there alone.
We should bail now. Call the Academy.
We can take them. This hiding is moronic.
Kill everyone down there.
Prove yourself.
They don’t even like us. Run in the other direction. Leave them.
SHUT UP, Caleb insisted.
In the darkness, Caleb saw Nigel looking in his direction. He realized he was clenching his teeth, veins in his neck bulging. He forced himself to relax.
The muffled sound of gunfire erupted from inside the bar. The Garde all jumped and so did the Harvesters outside. They looked unsettled—some of them moved towards the building, others away from it. Those who had guns raised them.
“You heard that?” Caleb asked the others.
“Yes,” Ran replied.
Seconds later, a fireball exploded through the back door of Apache Jack’s. The force knocked the screen door right off its hinges and blew out the bar’s back windows. Several Harvesters were knocked clear over the deck’s railing, the others outside rushing to their aid. Fire crackled along the door frame and black smoke billowed into the night. A biker ran out the back door and tossed himself to the ground in an effort to put out the flames on his back.
“Bloody hell,” Nigel remarked. “Imagine that’s a distress signal, yeah?”
“We have to go in,” Kopano said firmly, starting forward.
Caleb put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Hold on. Let me go first.” He paused. “I mean, let them go first.”
A dozen duplicates slid out from Caleb. His three friends stepped back, giving him room as their patch of trees became suddenly crowded. Caleb was grateful for the opportunity to let his duplicates out; it quieted the voices in his head. Mentally, he commanded them to spread out. Keeping low—even though there was little chance the Harvesters would see them with all their attention on the fire—the duplicates fanned out into the woods.
“I’ll attack them from all angles,” Caleb said. “Keep them busy.”
Ran hadn’t taken her eyes off the chaos at the bar. She turned a pinecone over in her hand, a small pile of the things collected at her feet.
“I don’t see her down there,” Ran said. “I don’t think the explosion was a diversion. Isabela might be trapped in there.”
“I’ll get eyes on her,” Caleb said.
Nigel put a hand on his shoulder. “You can handle that many clones?”
Caleb nodded, although he wasn’t entirely sure. A dozen at once was as many as he’d managed during the fight last night and that had left him feeling ripped apart, like his body had been stretched too far.
Hell with it. They needed to find Taylor.
He urged the clones forward. Focusing, he divided his attention among the duplicates, making them move cautiously.
The duplicates spread out through the trees so they wouldn’t give away Caleb and the others’ position. Some of them looped around farther, towards the sides of Apache Jack’s. The goal here was to locate Isabela and she could be anywhere within that bar. Caleb’s vision blurred. Each duplicate’s view of Apache Jack’s was like a still frame from a movie made transparent and laid over the next angle. If Caleb concentrated, he could isolate one view at a time, but that meant losing some control over the other duplicates.
“I’m sending them in,” he said through his teeth. Throughout the woods, the duplicates whispered his words.
“We’ve got your back, mate,” Nigel said, sticking close.
A dozen Calebs charged towards Apache Jack’s. The Harvesters didn’t see them coming. They were too focused on the fire and whatever else was happening inside the bar. He hit the stragglers first, the ones closest to the woods. Two of the duplicates tackled one overweight biker and pummeled him into unconsciousness.
One of the nearby Harvesters—this one dressed like a cowboy and holding a shotgun—heard the commotion and spun about. A third duplicate was there when he turned and ripped the gun right out of his hands. The duplicate gracefully whipped the gun into a firing position and took aim.
This duplicate wanted to kill, but Kopano had encouraged them to limit their bloodshed. So Caleb took control. He smashed the Harvester across the face with the gun’s butt and then tossed the weapon into the woods.
His duplicates scrambled onwards. They were like a wave, catching the Harvesters from behind and smashing them into the ground. A woman who’d been working on the effigy heard a muffled shout and turned just before one of the clones would’ve pounced on her. She thrust her torch in the duplicate’s direction, burning his face. The pain didn’t register with Caleb, only the vague sense that that particular duplicate was no longer fully whole.
“We’re under attack!” the woman screamed.
A shirtless man who was trying to put out the fire turned at the woman’s warning. He pulled a pistol from the back of his jeans and shot the burned clone right between the eyes.
No more element of surprise. But at least the clones had taken out a handful of Harveste
rs before they were discovered.
Caleb felt a jolt pass through him as the duplicate disintegrated and returned to him. Immediately, he gritted his teeth and manifested the clone again, sent it sprinting through the woods to take a new angle on the bar.
“The abominations have followed us, brothers and sisters!” shouted a scrawny Harvester cowering on the back deck. “Strike them down for Reverend Jim—!”
One of the clones clamored over the deck’s railing and punched him in the mouth. Seconds later, a long-haired Harvester who looked like he’d spent the last five years living in the woods emerged from the smoke-filled back exit. He coughed raggedly but carried an automatic rifle.
The Harvester began to spray bullets wildly. He gunned down three clones and possibly a few of his own allies. The bullets even reached the trees. Ran and Kopano lunged for cover, while Nigel dragged the focused Caleb down to the ground.
With a sharp intake of breath, Caleb felt the clones return to him. He immediately set them loose, forcing them to charge back into battle.
“How long can you keep this up?” Nigel asked.
“Not sure,” Caleb replied, a migraine tearing through his brain. He’d been wondering who would run out of ammunition first—him or the man on the back deck.
The Harvesters on the back deck took cover behind the broken wooden slats of the railing. They were pinned between the fire and the clones, but they were starting to get organized. They were picking off Caleb’s clones faster than he could make them. Some of his duplicates grabbed weapons from fallen Harvesters and returned fire. The situation was too desperate to handle gently. They needed to find Isabela and get out of here.
In the darkness of the woods, Caleb couldn’t see if Kopano wore a look of disapproval. Caleb switched views, looking through the eyes of a clone that had looped around to the side of Apache Jack’s. He peered through a dirt-smudged window. Inside, a group of panicked Harvesters were getting the fire under control—it appeared to be localized around the back door, where Caleb could see charred and twisted hunks of what used to be fuel canisters. Other Harvesters had popped open a trapdoor beneath the bar that contained a stockpile of weapons, the bartender handing out rifles to whoever wanted one. Soon, they’d be in real trouble.