“My boy.”
“And?”
“That’s it.”
“That’s all? Your boy. For this fucking sacred book and your friends.”
“He’s all I want.”
Creem stepped back, acting impressed but—Eph could tell—thinking Eph a fool. “You know, I got to thinking, when I found out about you. Why two plans? What’s the Master thinking? Is it going to do both deals?”
“Probably neither,” said Eph.
Creem didn’t like the sound of that. “Anyway, it occurred to me—one of us is the backup plan. ’Cause, you do the deal first, what’s he need me for? I get fucked over, and you get the glory.”
“The glory of betraying my friends.”
Creem nodded. Eph should have paid more attention to Creem’s reaction, but he was too agitated now. Too torn. He saw himself reflected in this bloodless mercenary.
“I think the Master was trying to punk me. I think having the second deal is the same as having no deal. That’s why I told the others about the armory location. ’Cause they’re never gonna make it there. ’Cause Creem’s gotta make his move now.”
Eph became aware of the gangbanger’s closeness then. He checked the man’s hands, and they were empty—but balled into fists.
“Wait,” said Eph, sensing what Creem was about to do. “Hold on. Hear me out. I … I’m not going to do it. It was madness to even consider it. I’m not turning on these people—and you shouldn’t either. You know where a detonator is. We get that, hook it up to Fet’s bomb, and we go after the Master’s Black Site. That way we all get what we want. I get my boy back. You can have your chunk of real estate. And we nail that fucker once and for all.”
Creem nodded, appearing to weigh the offer. “Funny,” he said. “That’s exactly what I would say if the tables were turned and you were about to double-cross me. Adios, doc.”
Creem grasped Eph by his front collar, and there was no time to defend himself. The man’s fat fist and silvered knuckles came hurtling at the side of Eph’s head, and he didn’t feel the blow at first, only noticing the sudden twisting of the room, and then chairs scattering beneath the weight of his falling body. His skull smacked the floor and the room went white and then very, very dark.
The Vision
AS USUAL, OUT of the fire came the figures of light. Eph stood there, immobile—overwhelmed as they approached him. His solar plexus was hit by the energy of one of them as it struck him full-on. Eph resisted, wrestled for what seemed an eternity. The second figure joined the match—but Ephraim Goodweather didn’t give up. He fought bravely, desperately, until he saw Zack’s face again, amid the glow.
“Dad—” Zack said, and then the flashpoint occurred again.
But this time Eph did not wake up. The image gave way to a new landscape of verdant green grass under a warm yellow sun, rippling in an unobtrusive breeze.
A field. Part of a farm.
Clear, blue sky. Scudding clouds. Lush trees.
Eph raised his hand to block the direct sun from his eyes so he could see better.
A simple farmhouse. Small, constructed of bright red bricks with a roof of black shingles. The house was a good fifty yards away—but he reached it in just three steps.
Smoke curled out of the pipe chimney in perfect, repeating formation. The breeze shifted, leveling out the smoke stream, and the exhaust formed into alphabet letters written as though in a neat hand.
… L E Y R Z O L E Y R Z O L E Y R Z O L E Y R Z O …
The smoky letters dissipated, becoming a light ash drifting to the grass. He bent over at the waist in a full jackknife and swiped the blades with his fingers, and found his pads sliced open, red blood oozing out.
A lone, four-paned window in the wall. Eph put his face to it, and when he breathed onto the glass, his breath cleared the opaque window.
A woman sat at the old table in the kitchen. Bright yellow hair, writing in a thick book with a quill made from a beautiful, oversized, brilliant silver feather, dipped in an inkwell filled with red blood.
Kelly turned her head, not all the way toward the window, just enough so that Eph knew that she felt him there. The glass fogged again, and when he breathed it clear, Kelly was gone.
Eph circled the farmhouse, looking for another window or a door. But the house was solid brick, and after one full rotation, he could not even find the wall with the original window. The bricks had darkened to black, and as he backed off from the structure, it became a castle. The ash had turned the grass black at his feet, further sharpening the blades so that every step slashed at his bare feet.