Daniel appeared, Lisa at his side, and marched up to Ethan. He placed something against the open bite wound on his arm. He recoiled in pain, saw what it was: a fragment from the Dominion Stone. “Just to be safe,” Daniel said.
Another cult member lunged at them just then with an especially thick femur polished like a police baton. Ethan put up a hand to block the bone and his hand smashed into it and it broke into pieces. He almost laughed as he clutched the attacker by the shirt and threw him into a wall of safe-deposit boxes as if the man were a wet noodle.
Alex gathered up the fallen Rings with Xue’s help while Ethan made fast work of the remaining enemies. That done, he marched to the thick, oval vault door, pressed finger grooves into the shiny metal, and used them as grips to rip the door free from its foundation.
“So how is superstrength a mental power?” Lisa asked, exasperated. “And why am I always the one who asks that?”
Daniel shrugged. “The mind regulates every function of the body. I’d guess that Ethan’s body chemistry was altered by his brain, magnifying the density of his muscles, bones, et cetera.”
Lisa’s irritation disappeared. It was replaced by a cute smile and eyes that stared dreamily into his. “Is there anything you can’t explain?”
He returned the gesture, a longing expression gazing into her hungry eyes.
“Seriously, you two,” Alex said, rolling her eyes. She turned to Ethan. “Let’s go, Thor. You lead the way.”
What was that?
Who
was that?
Oblivion stopped walking. He’d felt it. But then, just as fast, it was gone.
Still, in that moment he’d taken all he’d needed. A new Ringwearer. One of the humans had put on a Ring of Dominion. Ethan Cooke, former FBI agent, born in Atlanta, Georgia, thirty-one human years ago.
But how could this plain man have encountered one of the Rings, and then known what would happen when he put it on? That should be impossible. Almost all of the Rings were accounted for, anyway.
Unless he’d found one of the Rings belonging to Alex or Payton, after they died. What kind of brainless man would dare . . . ?
But no, that was not possible either. Because one of the thoughts in Ethan Cooke’s mind he’d overheard before losing contact was a fleeting glimpse at Alex, who stood nearby, alive and well.
Oblivion had
felt
her die. Or thought he had when his connection to her severed. But what if she hadn’t died? What if they’d found a way to escape his control?
If Alex was still alive, then Payton could still be alive as well, and if that was the case . . .
Then the humans had found a way to unbind him from his army.
And the freed Ringwearers would be coming. Some kind of misguided attempt to intervene in his work.
A thought back to his brief connection to Ethan Cooke confirmed his suspicion with a sliver of thought, anticipation, excitement . . .
Let them come. Hope would only make their deaths sweeter.
The final leg of Oblivion’s journey was at hand; he and his army would enter Israel soon. He remembered previous occasions when he had been to the tiny nation. One notable instance had brought him to the slaughter of seventy thousand humans at one time. It was the closest thing Oblivion had to a fond memory.
The rebel fools believed they could stop him.
He had butchered countless of their kind, and no one could do a thing to hinder him.
He was unstoppable.
The others had held their own against the attacking cultists, and with Ethan and Alex coming in as backup, that fight soon ended without further injury for any of their team. Assessing their situation, all agreed Los Angeles was too unstable to stay in much longer and voted on a quick Conveyor ride back to Payton’s home in Arizona where they decided it best to spend the “night,” catching some sleep before heading for the Middle East, and Oblivion.
They returned with one more member than they’d arrived. Her home destroyed and her one living relative a monster, Yen Xue opted to leave with them. By way of explanation, she merely stated that actions speak louder than words in her culture, and that was that.
Exhaustion finally caught up with everyone, and before long they were sleeping. But Alex soon awoke to the sounds of violence.
Quickly reading the emotions of everyone in the building, she knew that their hiding place hadn’t been compromised. There was no sense of danger within these walls.
She rose from the upstairs bed and descended the metal stairs quietly so as not to rouse anyone. The source of the commotion was the clanging of metal on metal, fists thumping against vinyl padding, and feet shuffling across thatched, dojo-style training mats. Much of the sound came in the form of grunting and hard breathing.
Payton was momentarily visible in his special training area, then disappeared again. Alex approached guardedly, watching as Payton slashed, sliced, and thrust with precisely measured moves that reduced the room’s contents to bits and shards. Payton’s body and clothes were drenched in sweat that dripped to the ground like a rainstorm.
Alex settled in a seat well outside of the training area. Impressed with the meticulous nature of Payton’s thrusts and parries, she realized he never did anything without a very specific reason. He didn’t eat, walk, speak, or sleep unless it served whatever purpose he was currently pursuing. And here, shortly before they would be leaving to face the greatest threat the world had ever known, he was honing his skills with a ferocity she’d not seen from him before.
At long last, his bursts of speed ended, and Payton laid the flat side of his silver samurai sword against the back of his opposite hand. He stood perfectly still, breathing hard and soaking wet, his eyes searching every inch of the blade for . . . Well, Alex didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly. Stains? Rust? Imperfections? He protected that weapon like his life depended on it, and she knew that in his line of work, it almost always did.
Silence fell as his exertions came to an end, and it struck Alex that he was the one thing in the entire room still standing.
“Hope you’ve got another one of these training rooms somewhere,” she said softly.
Payton looked up as if noticing her for the first time, but Alex knew this was just a formality. He always seemed to know a person’s actions before they did themselves.
“You should be sleeping,” he said, returning his gaze to the sword.
“It’s overrated,” she replied. “Besides, I just have nightmares about Oblivion, about what it was like under his control. You ever have nightmares?”
Payton shot her a fleeting glance that was all the confirmation she needed.
Alex wanted to ask if he missed Morgan, but she knew better than to go down that road. He was still examining his sword like it was an appendage, a piece of himself he couldn’t live without. “So . . . is war really our only option?” she asked.
He offered no reply. Instead, he moved across the room and retrieved a towel with which he polished the sword. It was a ritual; he’d done this many times before, Alex noted.
She sighed, her thoughts wandering. “Payton . . . Do you ever find yourself reflecting back on the person you were before the Shift?”
“As a rule,” he said quietly, wiping his face with the towel, “I try not to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have nothing worth looking back upon.”
“I was disabled,” Alex said, not knowing why she was saying it out loud. “A paraplegic, and a burden on my family that they didn’t deserve.”
“Then you have nothing worth reflecting on either.”
“But that’s just it. It was painful and it was hard and I was so ashamed of myself for bringing so much grief to everyone who loved me . . . but sometimes I miss that life so much that I
ache
.”
Alex stopped speaking, waiting for him to comment. When he didn’t, she said, “Come on, there has to be something about your old life that was good, something you miss.”
He shook his head, still refusing to look at her. “There’s nothing.”
“Then I pity you for a life without joy, or love,” Alex said defiantly.
“I pity
you
for a life blinded by love,” he shot back. “Love is an illusion. A chemical process. Ultimately it’s futile.”
“A chemical process, huh? If that’s how you define love, what’s your take on killing?”
“Dealing death is necessary to the survival of the collective population. Not everyone has the stomach or the capacity for it. But some people are too dangerous to be allowed to live, and if they are not removed from society, then the world will spiral into anarchy. As it is in danger of doing now.”
“I won’t let this be done to him,” Alex said, suddenly all business. “Not Grant. They can’t just rape his identity like this. He deserves better.”
“Yes, he does,” Payton replied. “But it’s done. And he’s gone.”
“No,” was all Alex could say.
Payton looked up at the ceiling as if trying to figure out how to explain a complex concept to a little child. “He’s gone, Alex. Grant is gone. Forever. The thing that killed him is wearing his face. And I’m going to destroy it.”
Alex let out a long, slow breath. “I know what you’re saying is true, but what I feel won’t go away. I can’t turn it on and off like a switch. I look at the abomination that is Oblivion, and some part of me still sees Grant.”
Payton sheathed his sword and cast his eyes toward the wreckage he’d created.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Alex,” he said. “Don’t force me to.”
Alex didn’t hesitate. “I meant what I said before. You try to hurt him, and I swear I’ll stop you.”
“And I’ll cut down
anything
that gets in my way.”
For the first time, their eyes locked on each other, just for a moment.
“I’m gonna save him,” Alex said.
“I’m going to kill him,” Payton said.
G
RANT SCREAMED
.
The heat pouring into his chest was searing, burning his very soul. He had never felt anything more visceral, more real. His eyes were closed tight and he was screaming, but his arms and legs had gone limp, and there was nothing he could do to stop the flow of white-hot pain.
Still his twin spoke to him, and he heard and understood every word, over his own screaming and writhing.
“Face the truth, Grant. You’re not altruistic. You were never a hero. Not really. ‘Guardian’ helped people for his own self-serving motives . . . just like you did everything else.”
“That’s not true!” Grant yelled over the pain. “I wanted to help people! I wanted to do what was right!”
Mirror Grant smirked. “At best, you were a selfish loner who went around ‘doing good’ because he craved the love no one else ever gave him. So you sought it out from the public at large—it’s their gratitude you coveted more than anything. Because even though it’s fleeting and even though it’s not sincere love in the way that you long for . . . their adoration feels to you like a close enough approximation of a parent’s unconditional love.”
The pain increased tenfold, to an intensity Grant didn’t think he could withstand. He shrieked and flailed, but it was worthless.
Long past the point where he felt he could stand no more, the other man’s hand left his chest and the pain subsided at last. The duplicate turned his back and walked away.
Grant had no need to breathe here in this dark place, wherever it was. But he was bent over double, clutching at the residual pain in his chest, and he felt hatred boil up inside him until he could hold it back no longer.
He lunged.
Wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist, he tackled him, pulling him to the ground, and he began punching, kicking, pulling, tearing, clawing at his double with everything within him.
“I HATE YOU!!” he screamed. “I hate you I hate you I hate you!”
“Sticks and stones, Grant!” the other man shouted back. “You’re not the first to ever tell me that!”
The two men became intertwined, fighting hard against each other and rolling about on the utter absence of ground.
“Just admit it, Grant!” the mirror man shouted. “I want to hear you say it! Mankind’s multitude of poor choices has made the world a hopeless cause, and in the end there’s no real reason to fight for it! SAY IT!”
“NO!!” Grant roared, trying to poke the other man’s eyes out, then resorted to beating against his head, shoulders, and chest with both hands.
“You wouldn’t lift a finger to help anyone if there wasn’t something in it for you, and you know it!” the other man shouted at him. “Such a shame too, since they need you now more than ever . . .”
Grant hit him and kicked him and scratched at this hated creature like he was nine years old again, still scrapping in the dirt with Finch Bailey.
“And what about . . . her?” the duplicate man asked knowingly. “We both know your only interest in the opposite sex extends no further than what’s in it for you! You could never love a woman like Alex unselfishly!”
Grant launched himself at this enemy anew, pulling at his hair and trying to rip the skin off of him. “That’s not true! It’s not true! It’s not . . .”
“Stand down, or be killed,” said the heavily accented voice.
Ethan hated being on the wrong end of a gun. Especially the business end of an assault rifle five feet away with a nervous
Israeli soldier holding a noticeably quivering finger on the trigger. The young fighter blinked hard to see through the sweat rushing down his forehead; the motion added more of a tic to the finger that was already twitching, struggling not to pull the rifle’s trigger.
A wildfire raged ten feet to Ethan’s right. Aside from the heavy breathing coming from the small Israeli barricade and the occasional soft clanking of their weaponry, the hissing of the fire was the only sound in this lifeless desert under the dark sky.
“Move out of our way,” Ethan replied in kind, “and we won’t have to cripple you.”
The soldier looked sideways at his fellows, trying not to betray a nervous weariness. Ethan wondered if this skeleton crew manning a makeshift outpost so close to Jerusalem had somehow lost its commanding officer. He almost felt sorry for the young soldiers; they were only doing their duty as best they could.