van draws my eyes back to the ground in time to watch both her and Christina dive down the embankment—right as the obelisk thing gives off a low, throbbing whomp. The minivan explodes, flying into the air like a Matchbox car. One of the agents wrenches me to my feet and tosses me to the side of the road, where I roll and crash through thorny underbrush. My head thumps against a rock. Blood fills my mouth as I bite my tongue. I land in a trickling stream at the bottom of a shallow hill, on my back, smoke and flames spurting from the mayhem above me.
I open my mouth, but I can’t manage to draw in air. My eyes are riveted on the obelisk, which shoots backward suddenly as three more RPGs are launched. Congers and his men are shouting, calling to one another to reload, to fire. The obelisk, its hellish spire pointing at the sky, spins, but only dodges two of the grenades this time. The other glances its side and detonates. Before the smoke clears, the obelisk tilts backward, aiming that sharp nose at the horizon. I wait for it to fall from the sky, but instead, it darts away, moving too fast to track. A moment later, it’s like it was never there.
Except for the carnage it left behind.
Two agents plunge down the embankment and grab me while Congers barks orders, instructing the others to mount up. My voice returns to me as they lift me from the ground. “Mom! Christina!” They should be nearby. I saw them roll down the embankment. They couldn’t be more than a hundred feet away.
But they don’t answer me.
No. I can’t have lost both of them. I shout until the only sounds that come from me are hoarse croaks. I curse at the agents; I kick and struggle; I rage and thrash. The minivan is a twisted husk, overturned in the road, not two feet from the spot where I was lying when that thing fired on us. I spew question after question, but no one speaks to me. They’re focused on getting me contained, on getting me into the SUV. As they do, I see Leo, strapped into the seat in front of me, pale and scared as he watches me lose my shit. I’m wedged between Congers and Mack, the red-haired agent. The men on either side of me are sweating, tense, their movements abrupt and hard.
“Mute him,” growls Congers, and Mack pulls a black case from the seat pocket in front of him. “He’s panicking.” Congers loops his steely arm around my throat and cuts off my air supply. “You have to calm down. Calm down now, or you give me no choice.”
I gulp for air and come up dry. Vision spotting, I buck and elbow until a spike of pain pierces my thigh, and once again, that heaviness swirls in my veins. I fight it, slamming my head back, trying to hit Congers, but he only squeezes tighter. “When you wake up, we’ll talk again.”
SIX
MY DREAMS ARE MADE OF FIRE. I LOSE MY MOM AND dad in a hundred hellish conflagrations. Mom always calls my name, and her longing and terror is like a language of its own. Dad is silent and grim, but before the flames devour him, his eyes tell me that he doesn’t want to go, that he’d stay if he could, that he’s sorry I have to do this without him. I am always bound, unable to move or change things no matter how much I fight. I watch helplessly as the obelisk rises high, moving like a whisper, and opens its sparkling, swirling portal.
Everything after that is death and defeat. And even though the inferno never touches me, it burns all the same.
“Give him another shot. I need him alert.”
“Don’t touch me,” I slur, my defiance hardwired even though it feels like I’m swimming in a sea of motor oil and rebar, everything sharp and jagged, the air too thick to breathe. I’m upright, but only because I’m bound to a chair.
Congers is squatting in front of me as I open my eyes. His expression is stern, and his face is paler than it was before. “Cooperate, and I won’t.”
It takes effort, but I raise my head. I’m in a windowless box of a room. Buzzing fluorescent lighting above me.
I open my mouth, but I can’t manage to draw in air. My eyes are riveted on the obelisk, which shoots backward suddenly as three more RPGs are launched. Congers and his men are shouting, calling to one another to reload, to fire. The obelisk, its hellish spire pointing at the sky, spins, but only dodges two of the grenades this time. The other glances its side and detonates. Before the smoke clears, the obelisk tilts backward, aiming that sharp nose at the horizon. I wait for it to fall from the sky, but instead, it darts away, moving too fast to track. A moment later, it’s like it was never there.
Except for the carnage it left behind.
Two agents plunge down the embankment and grab me while Congers barks orders, instructing the others to mount up. My voice returns to me as they lift me from the ground. “Mom! Christina!” They should be nearby. I saw them roll down the embankment. They couldn’t be more than a hundred feet away.
But they don’t answer me.
No. I can’t have lost both of them. I shout until the only sounds that come from me are hoarse croaks. I curse at the agents; I kick and struggle; I rage and thrash. The minivan is a twisted husk, overturned in the road, not two feet from the spot where I was lying when that thing fired on us. I spew question after question, but no one speaks to me. They’re focused on getting me contained, on getting me into the SUV. As they do, I see Leo, strapped into the seat in front of me, pale and scared as he watches me lose my shit. I’m wedged between Congers and Mack, the red-haired agent. The men on either side of me are sweating, tense, their movements abrupt and hard.
“Mute him,” growls Congers, and Mack pulls a black case from the seat pocket in front of him. “He’s panicking.” Congers loops his steely arm around my throat and cuts off my air supply. “You have to calm down. Calm down now, or you give me no choice.”
I gulp for air and come up dry. Vision spotting, I buck and elbow until a spike of pain pierces my thigh, and once again, that heaviness swirls in my veins. I fight it, slamming my head back, trying to hit Congers, but he only squeezes tighter. “When you wake up, we’ll talk again.”
SIX
MY DREAMS ARE MADE OF FIRE. I LOSE MY MOM AND dad in a hundred hellish conflagrations. Mom always calls my name, and her longing and terror is like a language of its own. Dad is silent and grim, but before the flames devour him, his eyes tell me that he doesn’t want to go, that he’d stay if he could, that he’s sorry I have to do this without him. I am always bound, unable to move or change things no matter how much I fight. I watch helplessly as the obelisk rises high, moving like a whisper, and opens its sparkling, swirling portal.
Everything after that is death and defeat. And even though the inferno never touches me, it burns all the same.
“Give him another shot. I need him alert.”
“Don’t touch me,” I slur, my defiance hardwired even though it feels like I’m swimming in a sea of motor oil and rebar, everything sharp and jagged, the air too thick to breathe. I’m upright, but only because I’m bound to a chair.
Congers is squatting in front of me as I open my eyes. His expression is stern, and his face is paler than it was before. “Cooperate, and I won’t.”
It takes effort, but I raise my head. I’m in a windowless box of a room. Buzzing fluorescent lighting above me.
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