Run, a voice in Mack’s head said. Just run. Run far away.
He glanced left and right and saw fear in every eye. Well, except for Stefan. But all of them felt that fear, felt that temptation, felt that urge to turn and run away.
Fear is normal. Everyone has fear. (Okay, except Stefan.) Everyone wants to survive. Everyone wants evil to be someone else’s problem. Don’t they? Don’t you? Don’t I?
Most people live their lives and never have to come right up close with evil. Those people are lucky.
But some people can’t escape it; some people are just standing there on a bridge when evil comes looking for them, and they could run. They could turn away and try to save themselves.
That’s what most people do.
But fortunately for all of us, some people don’t.
Some people stand their ground no matter how much their insides turn liquid and their muscles turn weak and their chests feel weighted down so they can hardly breathe.
We call those people brave.
On that day, at that time, facing an inconceivable evil and armed with only a few words and the strength inside them, the Magnificent Twelve did not run away.
The Pale Queen saw that resolve. And she felt fear, too.
Not that it stopped her. I mean, she’d been looking forward to this for three thousand years.
She began to move, and her speed was shocking. She was no ponderous, shuffling, slow-moving monster. Her six hands/legs churned the stone pier and the water on either side, and she moved!
“Hold hands,” Mack ordered.
“What words?” Dietmar asked. For once he was letting Mack take the lead.
“We want this to end,” Jarrah said. “We don’t want someone else to deal with this in some distant future.”
“End it,” Sylvie agreed.
“Stib-ma albi kandar,” Xiao whispered. “Kill the Pale Queen.”
The Pale Queen was a whole lot bigger than an express train and was moving as fast as one. She would hit them and snap the cables like threads and bring them all crashing down to their deaths.
“Everyone got that?” Mack asked.
“No problem,” José said.
“This is so bogus,” Hillary complained. But she repeated the words quietly to herself, ensuring she had them right.
“Five seconds,” Stefan said.
“Yep,” Mack said tersely.
Then he felt it. Like someone had hooked them all up to a power line. It was a vast and amazing thing. He had felt inklings of it before, but here, now, at last: they were the Magnificent Twelve, and the power that flowed through them and united them was like the power of exploding suns.
“Four,” Stefan said
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Now!” Mack cried.
And with one voice, staring through tear-streaked eyes at the Pale Queen, focusing all their power on her, they shouted,