Blue Magic (40 page)

“She apparently found time to set us all up. She set the Alchemites on the army—using you as bait.”

“Silence!” Sahara bellowed.

“Try to understand,” Astrid pleaded. “The people she would have killed—the soldiers, cops. Lowering the body count—”

“And if the pesky Alchemites kept you off Roche’s agenda, that was … what? A side benefit?”

“What was I supposed to do, Will, take ’em on? Me, Ma, Mark, and Patience? All Roche had to do was drop one nuke on the well. I needed time, and the Alchemites wanted to fight.”

“My wife was an Alchemite!”

“I didn’t know she’d be killed!”

“You’re just like the grumbles. Always a card hidden, right? What was it your dad said, magic grows best in the shade?”

“Darlings, darlings.” Sahara tried again: “Charming as it is to have ringside seats on your first lover’s spat—”

Will spun, confronting the dumbfounded Alchemites. “It never made sense, did it? All those chantments waiting, none of them lethal enough to give you an outright victory.”

“The Goddess respects life!” someone shouted.

“All so fragile, so easily burned out … Astrid didn’t want you getting too powerful.”

“My Primas sacrified themselves for magic, not for the Filthwitch!” Sahara bellowed. “They fight for me. They died for me.”

Astrid sighed. “And that’s something to be proud of?”

Sahara’s face darkened. “See how you like it.”

With that she spun, slashing a razor-sharp talon across Astrid’s throat.

There was a spray of red blood and blue magic.

CHAPTER FORTY

“
DING FRIGGING DONG,” SAHARA
said, “the Filthwitch is dead.”

Silence smothered the plaza: everyone—Alchemites and Springers, Will, Juanita herself—was taken aback by Sahara’s sudden murderous turn.

Astrid’s mouth flapped open and her body jerked, the muscles of her bound arms flexing. Red and blue fluid poured over her upside-down face, running through her hanging curls … and then froze into a stalactite as blue ice, like glowing antifreeze, caked to slush over the wound in her neck.

Just a woman,
Juanita thought,
not a monster at all, and Sahara slaughtered her.…

“You think a little compress will do the trick?” Sahara said, tapping a talon on the ice. Astrid’s body stiffened, then went limp.

“See how easy that was?” Sahara said, addressing hostages and believers alike as she let her bloody hand drop.

“Please,” one of the dangling Springers said. “It’s not too late to heal her.”

“You all just hang tight—hang tight, get it?—and watch her die. It’ll be a good lesson.” Sahara’s gaze roved over her assembled worshippers, pausing on an Alchemite who wouldn’t quite meet her gaze. She tipped up the girl’s chin. “Something to say, Chalice, my love?”

“No, beloved Goddess,” she stammered.

“Tsk, darling, I know that’s not true.”

The woman struggled to gather herself. “What she said—the troves. Did she…”

“Are you questioning Sahara—?” Passion’s voice was choked with rage.

“Hush, Passion.” Sahara put up a placating hand. “Chalice needs to see that I don’t need the Filthwitch to work miracles.”

“She’s right,” someone said: Will Forest. “Do you believe or don’t you?”

The words meant something to the prisoners from Indigo Springs. Their weeping stopped. Several had seemed to retreat inward after the attack on Astrid, into personal shells of fear or shock. Now they revived, drawn back by Will’s words.

Looking up at one of the bound Springers, an ancient-looking black man, Forest said, “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

Using his right hand—he was still clasping the grenade in the left—Will lifted the old man’s walking stick off the plaza floor. The movement opened the scratches Juanita had made in his wrist; blue fluid seeped from the wounds into the wooden cane. Moving with an odd formality, Forest offered it to Sahara.

Wary, she nevertheless accepted it, taking a deep whiff of the wood. “What’s this?”

“You wanted the well,” he said. “Presumably you’re not planning to let the Fyremen take it from you?” He pointed at the edge of the plaza. Smoke was pouring into the clearing; it had formed a column with flame-bright eyes.

“It’s a trick,” Passion said.

“No,” Sahara said, examining the cane. “This does … fight fire.”

She turned, striking a fencing pose, extending the cane’s tip into the column of smoke. A flowering of light, shimmering and multicolored—like the northern lights, Juanita thought as it grew higher and higher—blossomed, expanding skyward. The column of smoke thinned; the flaming eyes dimmed.

Bathed in radiance, wielding the cane like a sword, Sahara looked every inch the avenging angel.

Passion shouted: “Praise the Goddess!”

Others took up the chant. Juanita looked from one Alchemite to another. Ecstasy shone in more than one face, but there was uncertainty here and there.

Of course. They’d seen Forest make the chantment.

Sahara claimed to be the source of the magic. She’d preached that the Filthwitch had usurped her, assured everyone that she would possess the well once Lethewood was gone. Now here she was, taking freshly made magical objects from Astrid’s supposed puppet.

Were some of the sisters looking past the spin?

A snap, a fizzle. The radiance surrounding Sahara dimmed. The sparkling reserves of power—letrico, Forest had called it—were shrinking.

Passion clapped her hands. “Draw heat.”

The cantation rose from a dozen throats at once. Small bolts of power flickered to the edge of the plaza.

“More!” Passion shouted.

Again, the light show surrounding Sahara wavered. People shivered as the temperature dropped. And there were more frowns now. Each failure of the showy aurora kindled more doubt.

“Lowering the prisoners will save power,” Passion said.

“Fine.” Sweat was running down Sahara’s forehead. The captured Springers began to drift to the concrete floor of the plaza. They seemed less afraid than their captors.

“I could make something to protect you from the cold,” Forest offered.

“Silence!”

As the prisoners came to rest, there was a rush of power toward Sahara. Her aurora brightened, but the smoke didn’t lessen. If anything, it was coming in faster now, drawn by the drop in air pressure. Air was rushing out as it cooled, but smoke was pouring in from above, lots of smoke.…

Passion saw it too. “Stop the heat draw!”

Too late: hot air gusted over them.

“The turbulence is fanning the flames,” Will said. “This is the part where the woods really catch—”

“Don’t you
dare
start with Astrid’s ‘I’m so confused, what time is it?’ crap!” The shimmer around Sahara faded again.

Chalice, the Alchemite who’d questioned Sahara, shot a quick look in Forest’s direction. She wasn’t subtle enough—Passion yanked her to her feet.

“Something on your mind, sister?”

“Leave her be,” Will said.

“He made the cane. I just thought…”

“It’s all right,” Sahara said. “Come here, child.”

The Alchemite rushed forward, eager to please, and Sahara put out her free hand, as if in blessing. The girl grasped it, bowing, a prayer on her lips.

Sahara was speaking too, murmuring words, and suddenly the aura around the cane was blazing again, blinding and beautiful, illuminating Chalice’s face as it became pale and drawn. She grew thin, then skeletal. By the time she’d realized she was being vamped, she was too weak to pull away. Bony, aged, and dried out, she dropped to the ground without a murmur.

“Any other doubters?” Passion turned her gaze on the other Alchemites. One, foolishly, backpedaled. Two of the sharper faithful seized him, dragging the man to their goddess’s waiting, deadly grasp.

I have to stop this,
Juanita thought.

“I thought the Goddess respected life,” Forest protested.

Sahara shot him a scornful glare. “Wanna be next?”

“I go, the well closes.”

“The power comes from Sahara!” Passion whirled, knocking him on his ass with an inexpert but effective punch.

“You wouldn’t be trying to shut me up, Passion, would you?”

She stood over him, fists raised. “You need to remember you’re not invulnerable anymore.”

“If Sahara can’t beat the Fyremen back, they’ll burn the well and everyone here.”

“I am beating them back,” Sahara said with obvious effort. “Passion, get me another sacrifice.”

“Him.” Passion chose another Alchemite.

As they dragged him forward, he shrieked: “Goddess, if you took a little from each of us—”

“Shouldn’t you be ready to give her everything?” Forest said.

He was provoking them, as Astrid had, Juanita thought. These people needed lessons in diplomacy.

“At least take the prisoners first,” the proposed Alchemite sacrifice pleaded.

“Yeah,” Will said. “There’s commitment. There’s belief.”

Belief, Juanita thought. It wasn’t the Church she’d been missing all this time. It was belief itself. Divinity, the life of the spirit … call it what you would, it was what the Alchemites were missing, too. Why else had they followed someone as transparently opportunistic as Sahara?

“We will go to her embrace willingly,” Passion said.

“Listen to me!” Forest shouted. “Even if Sahara turns back the Fyremen, she will suck every last one of you as dry as Chalice. You’ve seen she’s as human as you are.”

Sahara said, “These people will gladly die for me.”

“Show of hands, folks,” Forest said. “How many would like to get fried by Sahara here and now, and how many would at least prefer to see the hostages go first?”

“We are not voting,” Passion said. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of.”

“You said you’d die for her,” he said.

“I need another offering!” Sahara bellowed. She had reduced the man to a husk.

Juanita yanked Gilead’s lick of fire off her throat and crushed the glass between her palms. There was a tickle, a sense of heat. A wave of fatigue spread through her: Will’s magic ring was protecting her from the sea-glass.

She looked at the Alchemite next to her, speaking just loudly enough to catch Passion’s ear: “Wanna make a run for it?”

The Alchemite flinched away, and Passion pounced.

Struggle,
Juanita thought—
make it convincing.

“Beloved Sahara, I beg you, take this life.”

Passion shoved her forward. Juanita faked a stumble, landing on her knees at Sahara’s feet. She put up her hands, as if in self-defense.

Sahara beamed. “You believe now, don’t you?”

“Funnily enough,” Juanita said. “You were right about everything.”

Then Sahara was reaching for her.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

IT WILL ALL BE
okay.

It was the ultimate promise of every faith, Will thought as he watched Juanita play Passion, as the Alchemites dragged the former marshal toward Sahara. Everything would be all right in the end. First the apocalypse, then paradise.

But things weren’t okay. Astrid was dead; her body lay ten feet from him. He’d promised he wouldn’t let her die, and then exchanged her life for those of his kids. Now, if he couldn’t turn this around, they were all finished.

“That aurora’s very flashy.” Pike interrupted his reverie, buzzing words at him through the tuning fork.

“I lifted it from a movie I saw ten years ago.”

“Thought I’d seen it. Boss dead?”

Grief cut through him. “Sahara murdered her.”

“We’re a hair short of screwed, then, aren’t we?”

If something happens to me,
she’d said,
you have to be ready to take over.
He owed her that much, at least.

Sound sure,
he thought. “We’re gonna come out of this, Pike.”

“Glad to hear it, lad.” Pike’s cheery lilt seemed forced. “Bigtop’s afire—we have to evacuate through Bramblegate.”

“No other way out?”

“Fyremen’ve burned our back door. Also—perhaps ye’ve noticed—the well’s in danger.”

“There’s something developing here that should make for a distraction. Give it ten seconds and have everyone run.”

“Ten seconds,” Pike agreed. “Nine.”

Juanita was on her knees, face peaceful, lips moving … in prayer? Everyone watched, spellbound, as Sahara reached for her. The aurora splashed color around them, Vegas razzle-dazzle.

Juanita lifted her hands … protecting her face? Sahara took them, beaming, murmuring the vamping cantation.

Her expression changed. She trilled, tried to yank back. Suddenly Juanita was the one holding on.

Passion lashed out at Juanita and was blown back, slamming into a barrier of trees by the plaza.

Caro’s ring,
Will thought.
It’s protecting Juanita as she does … What is she doing?

Whatever it was, Sahara had dropped the cane. Now nobody was holding out the Fyremen. Before anyone could take it up, the chantment caught fire, filling the smoky air with a scent of scorched lilacs.

A
whump,
like gas igniting. The column of smoke expanded. Dense, alchemized foliage above the plaza turned ember red, wisping away in cinders. Ash rained onto the plaza from above.

Above the burning canopy, Will saw the sky, the flat disk of the sun obscured by a pall of violet smoke.

“Fyremen have reached the plaza!” a volunteer shouted.

“Three, lad.”

Sahara leapt upward, beating her wings, breaking Juanita’s grip. Cackling, she rose over the plaza, ten feet high, then twenty. She fled upward, blood dribbling from her hand.

Sea-glass poisoning,
a grumble said. For a moment, Will thought he recognized its voice.

“Two.”

“Pike, tell everyone to run, run now!”