Rachel Caine - Unknown

“Do you?” An entirely different voice than the boy’s, although using his vocal cords. “Really, do you doubt it, my sister? I thought you knew me better.”

Pearl. Pearl was speaking through this boy. I caught my breath. I felt Luis’s warm hand grip my shoulder, and I put a palm down flat on the warm ground, taking in power and feeding it through the cycle between us. Preparing for the strike, if it would come.

The boy’s eyes were still black, but now it wasn’t adolescent anger in them, it was something worse. Focused malice. Real evil.

“You send out your troops ill-prepared,” I told her. “His attack was crude, you know.”

“I’m not interested in subtlety,” Pearl said. “You should know that about me, Cassiel.”

Oh, I did. All too well. “Then why not come to me directly? I’m your enemy. Not this one.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, and there was such deep, ancient anger in it that even I shuddered. “I have nothing but enemies. Doubt me not, sister mine. I will destroy this world and everything living on it. You’re a fool if you believe otherwise.”

With that, she was gone. Just . . . gone, leaving no clues, no comfort. She did not explain herself. She never had, and never would; I would have to guess at the dark motives behind her plans. But it would have to do with hatred and jealousy, just as it had before.

We had all felt it, when she had struck in those long-ago mists of time. Almost a million thinking beings killed in an instant, a mass murder on the scale of a god, a million souls screaming in pain and confusion. It had destroyed Pearl’s mind, or what remained of it; in response, she had begun to rip at the universe around us, damaging things that should never have suffered injury. Things that lacked the capacity to heal.

I had destroyed Pearl, or I thought I had. I was the original murderer, among the Djinn. The first of us to kill one of our own.

Ironic, that some seed of her had survived, had somehow cast down roots among the new species that filled the emptiness she’d left on the planet with her crimes. Humanity was where Pearl hid. Humanity was where her power lay.

And so Ashan, the leader of the True Djinn, had ordered me to repeat not my crime, but Pearl’s. By ending humanity, I would also, once and for all, end Pearl. So he believed, and it was likely true.

If I acted, I would become a monster. If I failed to act, Pearl would use the power she sucked from these humans to destroy my people.

Choices.

Candelario resurfaced, still glaring. I could see that he had no idea of what he had said—or what she said, using him as her remote tool. She hid within him, within all of them, like a virus.

This was, I realized, not a serious attack at all. Candelario was a crude instrument, powerful and poorly trained. A failure, she would classify him. Expendable. She sent him to me expecting him to be destroyed.

I exchanged a look with Luis, and then cupped a hand behind the boy’s head. Bravado or not, he was sweating; I felt the clammy moisture against my fingers.

“Sleep,” I said, and took a small measure of Luis’s power to course through Candelario’s nerves. The boy went limp, head gone heavy against my hand, and Luis softened the ground around his feet while I pulled him free. The grass was tenacious where it had twisted around his legs, but I finally convinced it to withdraw. I eased the boy to his back on the grass and looked up at Luis. “What now?”

He would be a bad enemy to leave at our backs; he might not be clever, but I sensed that he would be implacable. If he couldn’t hurt us, he could threaten those around us, innocents caught in the crossfire of powers that they couldn’t understand.

Luis was quiet for a moment; then he said, “I’ll call Marion.” Marion Bearheart, I understood this to mean; she was a powerful Warden in her own right, and she had been left here to oversee the skeleton crew of adepts remaining in the country while the majority of the Wardens were off chasing some other threat—what, I did not know and did not care. It was none of my concern.

Marion Bearheart was also the head of a division of the Wardens which concerned itself with policing those with powers. They were police, judge, jury, and executioner when required.

We had little choice but to involve her. Only her resources could deal with this boy in anything other than a fatal manner.

Luis turned away to make the call on his cell phone, and I considered the boy on the ground. He looked thin, but not unhealthy. No scars or bruises that I could see. He had not been abused, or at least not in a way that left marks. Still, there clung to him an aura of desperation, of darkness, and I wondered if, on some level, his subconscious mind understood how little he meant to the one he followed so ardently.

I dug into his coat pockets, turning up the detritus of a young life—sticks of gum, a small cellular phone, a bus pass which showed he had arrived in town recently, coming to Albuquerque from Los Angeles, which I remembered was in the state of California. Many hours away. In another pocket I found a thin wallet, quite new, which contained only a library card for a place called San Diego, and some thin green sheets of money—not many. None of the other things that men like Luis normally carried in their wallets—no plastic cards, no slips of paper, no receipts for purchases. Only the cash, and the one simple card.

I held the card up to Luis as he finished up his phone call. He frowned as he read it. “San Diego?”

“What’s in San Diego?” I asked.

“Awesome shoreline, big naval base, great weather. Apart from that, I have no idea.” He handed it back. “Marion’s dispatching a team to take the kid into custody while they see what’s been done to him. Twelve is too young for anyone to be using the kind of power he did today. It could hurt him.”

Regardless of whether or not it hurt him, it would certainly, inevitably bring tragedy to those around him. Candelario was too powerful, and had none of the training and balance of an adult Warden. (Though I wondered, from time to time, how much difference that made with many of the Wardens, who had a tendency to act like spoiled children in their own right.)

“How long before they arrive?”

“You’re kidding, right? We’re short-staffed everywhere. She’s got to send a team out from Los Angeles. They’ll fly in, but it’ll still be tomorrow before they get here. We need to keep him on ice until then.”

I didn’t understand on ice until I framed it in the context of his words. Keep him controlled and unconscious, I interpreted. “Is that not kidnapping?”

“Sure,” Luis agreed. “If anybody is missing the kid. Which they might be, but we can’t give him back like this. He’s been brainwashed, like the rest of Pearl’s kids. Maybe Marion’s people can deprogram him and deactivate his powers until he’s old enough to grow into them.”

That was a positive interpretation. The other side—the likely side—was that the Wardens would be forced to remove Candelario’s powers completely, to ensure he didn’t harm himself or others.

But neither of us could afford to take a personal interest in the child’s rehabilitation. Isabel, I reminded myself. Isabel must be saved. Manny and Angela’s child, Luis’s niece. And something—though I hated to admit it—something to me as well. I dared not define it more than a simple admission that I had a connection to the child.

More than that implied threads which bound me into this half-life of human existence, and I was not yet ready to truly explore the depth of these connections.

None of which solved the problem of the boy lying at my feet. “What do we do with him?”