The Shadow Jubilee

By Jared Millet

After years of exile, Kite finds her way home, where an ancient evil secretly waits to use her as a means to escape from its prison.

Kite was abandoned at an early age, sent away from her home into the wilds of the galaxy. Fifteen years later, she returns to seek her family, longing for answers to who and what she is.

The reason—Kite’s brain works like no one else’s. Her thoughts can peer across reaches of space, a skill she employs as a starship navigator. However, her divergent nervous system rejects the cybernetic implants she would need in order to use any computerized tech. In the vast web of galactic civilization, she can’t so much as open a door without someone else’s assistance. Kite can only fend for herself on low-tech planets such as her birthplace, New Bretagne—a lonely water world drifting in the shadow of a nebula known as Le Voile.

Kite’s brother Merlin has grown up in that shadow as a member of a cult that worships Le Voile as a god. Or rather, they worship the alien Mind imprisoned on the dead neutron star at its heart. Emil Bellat, the leader of the cult, has groomed Merlin from childhood to free their alien master, for whereas Kite can see through the vastness of space, Merlin can reach across great leagues of time. Bellat wants to use the power of Merlin’s visions to slip the Mind of Le Voile from its prison.

But Merlin has plans of his own. He’s seen the future Bellat would bring about—one in which Le Voile destroys New Bretagne before raging across the stars. Merlin means to wrest control of the cult for himself, but his plans don’t account for Kite’s return or the fact that once Bellat knows who she is, he’ll want to use her as a vessel for his god.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jared Millet
• Release date: Jan 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215478929

Jared Millet

Jared Millet spent over twenty years as a librarian before leaving the public sector to write full time. His work has appeared in multiple magazines and anthologies, with even more stories to come. His travel writing, including tales of ten months circumnavigating South America, can be found online at TheEscapeHatch.net.

Book preview

1

KITE

I see through walls when I close my eyes. On planets, stations, or even in my cabin, I have to fight to keep my mind from prying where I know I don’t belong. But here in the void, I let my vision off its leash. My perception opens wide, sweeping past Akeru’s hull and into the dark as I watch for a stargate to appear.

Dozens of cargo ships float alongside us, bringing goods from all over the galactic spiral arm, each ship bracing to be the first vessel through. Our destination, New Bretagne, is a metal-poor world, so its needs are specific and easy to predict, such as the enriched soil Akeru’s brought to trade.

My body floats between the vents in my crow’s nest, motionless at the balance point. Usually this is where I find my inner calm, but tonight my chest is full of birds. I’ve kept lookout for dozens of jubilee gates, but never this one, the gate to my home. The passage to get there has been closed for fifteen years, and knowing that soon it will open again burns like acid in my throat.

Galley to Kite, says Noën, our copilot, her voice crackling on the primitive intercom. How are you doing, honey? Can I bring you something to eat?

I breathe out slowly, pushing myself backward. When I bump against the wall, I grab a rung to halt my motion. My vision retreats back into my cell, a metal sphere with a grid etched on the bulkhead to help me call out directional headings. When I flip the intercom switch to speak, the toggle feels loose.

I’m all right for now. Are you c-coming off shift?

Triskle just took over, she says. I’m about to go pass out in our bunk.

Maybe when we land, you can actually s-see each other. Saints, I’m stuttering again. It feels like being so close to home is making it worse.

Wouldn’t that be great, says Noën. But seriously, Kite, how are you doing?

How am I doing? The last time I’d been in this corner of space, my mom put me in a cabin on an outbound ship and promised she’d be right back.

I don’t know, I tell her. I’ve been on edge since we left Calafar. I want to see home and get all this over with, but… p-part of me wants the gate to never open.

I know it must be hard, she says. I can’t imagine what it’s like. Just know that we’re here for you, sweetie. Whatever you need, we’ll back you up.

Thanks. That means a lot. Now get some sleep, okay?

Honey. Sweetie. Pet names for a mascot, not a member of the crew. I run my fingers through my too-short hair that I’d hoped to grow out from my spacer’s buzzcut. I want to look normal when I finally go home. I’m only a spacer by association, and I’m only useful because I’m a freak.

The intercom makes a hum it’s not supposed to. Captain Hiroki installed it solely for my benefit. Thanks to my screwed-up nervous system, my brain won’t accept the neural implants that would let me connect to Akeru’s hardmind or to the galactic communication Mesh. I’m a throwback, a Neanderthal, a hick from a jubilee planet who can only receive data the slow way—eyes and ears, taste and touch.

But when I push my mind, I can see like no one else. I see winds that sweep through the higher dimensions and feed the Minds at the galaxy’s core. I see loops and currents that string stars together, and the rivers of power that unite human space. More than that, I see the channels that close. I see zones that lie fallow in the shade of long-dead stars, and I can see when the levees in underspace break.

But I can’t see the way to New Bretagne.

Until I can.

My heart leaps, and I hold my breath. It was there for an instant; now it’s gone. I let go of the wall and drift back into position, shutting my eyes and ignoring the prickle of air from the vents. I stretch my awareness and hunt for the gate, hoping against hope that I’ll find it again.

There, on the flatness of interstellar space, is a dimple where the hyperwind sheared across a breach in the sargasso wall. The dimple becomes a swirl in three higher dimensions, and a pinhole opens up for a whisper of the hyperwind’s power. The hole is far too narrow to show up on Akeru’s sensors, and much, much too small to let a ship pass through.

But it grows. Ever so slowly, a pre-gate portal unfolds not five million kilometers from our position. Meanwhile, twenty light-years away, a trivial journey on the hyperwind but an impassible barrier in normal space, New Bretagne’s jubilee is about to begin. I kick toward the intercom, toggle the switch, and shout:

Gate sighting! Heading fifty-seven point six minus eighteen point eight. Distance four point six megs. Confirm.

Silence.

Confirm!

Nothing. The comm must have finally gone out, but why now? I open the hatch, about to sprint to the bridge, when the lights turn yellow and a siren blares. As with the intercom, the siren is for me alone, but it means the captain heard my call. I race to the bridge anyway.

I drop to the central corridor and land with several pounds of actual weight. Hiroki must have spun the gravity drive, but he won’t have gone to full power yet. If I know him, he’s run it up just enough to look like a maintenance check until my sighting is confirmed. At the end of the corridor, I dive into the egg-shaped command center.

Our dowser appears! Hiroki’s eyes glow with internal readouts. Tris, do you have confirmation?

Negative, says Triskle. Her hands rest, fingers splayed, on a flat control panel. I can’t read any of the vector plots the ship is beaming directly to her mind, but a sheet of glass in front of her translates the alternating layers of underspace into a panorama that even I can see. No sign on passive scans. Do you want me to try a tachyon ping?

Hold off, he says. Don’t want to show our hand with this many nibblers about. Hiroki’s eyes come back to the real world. Kite, how sure is the sighting?

Positive. I’m bouncing and I know it. I c-caught the first chink in the wall.

That’s my girl. Strap in next to Triskle and be her eyes.

Triskle’s hands shift as I buckle into the seat beside her. The display switches to a directional grid like the one in my crow’s nest. Most of the time on Akeru, my only job is to keep out of the way. Now, this moment, is my one chance to fly.

Sir, says Triskle, if it’s a pinhole, there’s no point in going for it yet.

Ooh, but we can squeeze. Where’s my engineer?

I close my eyes and find him. Coming up the pipe now. Dara’s wearing seven limbs today, two of which are fitted to plug into Akeru’s waldoes. Outside, his partner Gondo has been going full-mech to rearrange some cargo pods that shifted in transit. Behind Akeru’s power core, our twenty-five hundred cargo containers trail in their lattice like giant spiders’ eggs.

Triskle glances sideways. Do you have to do that? Hiroki can query the hardmind, you know.

Then he sh-shouldn’t have asked out loud. I hate it when Triskle needles me like that. I don’t need her to remind me there’s a world of data I’m deaf to. Thanks to Hiroki, the crew is under orders to speak out loud whenever possible around me. If nothing else, it keeps their language skills in shape for landing on jubilee worlds.

I hear we’re going for a ride? Dara crab-walks onto the bridge like a cross between a centaur and a scorpion. His otherwise human face shows a crooked grin. He’s removed his helmet, but is still in vacuum gear.

How do you feel about shooting some rapids? says Hiroki.

We’ve got a pinhole? Dara pauses, then his smile ripples back into place. Haven’t done that since Castor Phi. Let me tell Gondo to get his ass inside.

Do, says Hiroki, and warn him to expect interference on the Mesh feed.

What were those numbers again? Triskle whispers. I close my eyes and look. Good thing, too; the pinhole has moved.

Fifty-seven point seven minus eighteen point two. Distance four point seven seven seven million K.

"Captain, that puts our vector right past Meagan’s Mercy, says Triskle. If we move, she’ll get there first."

Then let’s draw the fish away. Dara, fold out the vanes into layer aleph-one and tack us upwind perpendicular to the gate. Make it look like we’re being inconspicuous. No one will believe it, but we may as well put on a show.

Hiroki winks, and I blush. Word about my special talent has spread among the space-trading community, and I’ve even received offers to jump ship. But I’d never leave Akeru. Her crew is all the family I have.

Copy that. Dara settles into the engineer’s station, clamps his legs into the floor, and plugs each of his arms into a different socket. Through my seat, I can feel the engine spin faster. In the higher dimensions, Akeru’s sails flutter open like dragonfly wings, while in normal space the ship drifts sideways.

Heading perpendicular to sighting, Triskle reports. I’m aligning our nose with star 6489+27 and nebula GC 9608 Le Voile. The way she says it rhymes with oil.

"Lev-Wall," I correct her, the Bretagnois pronunciation sliding off my tongue. The gate is little more than an eddy, but now there’s a thread of a passage beyond. At our first gust of motion, all the ships in our vicinity power up. Three begin to follow.

We’ve got stringers. I quickly confirm their names on Triskle’s board. "Penguin, Torraine, and 78 Roses are converging on our trajectory."

Yawning, Noën stumbles onto the bridge. Triskle reaches behind me to squeeze her hand.

"What about Meagan’s Mercy?" says Hiroki.

No movement, says Triskle.

Hold on, I tell them. She’s spun her engine, but hasn’t unfurled her vanes. I th-think I’m seeing a problem with her c-cargo pods. Part of their lattice is detached.

Hiroki grins like a wolf. Caught with her skirt in a twist, hey? I bet Captain Jerrik is debating whether to leave half his goods or miss the opening sale. Will she be in our way when we move on the gate?

Negative, I answer. We’ll miss her by five thousand klicks. More, if we keep tacking.

That’s wide enough. How’s our gate looking?

Still opening. P-p-pretty soon the other ships might detect it on their own. It’s hard to keep my focus in the midst of all this chatter, but our target is growing clearer by the moment.

All right. Let’s do it. Hiroki straightens in his harness. All hands, Kite has the conn. Do as she says, and don’t give her any guff.

I nod and wait for my opening. It’s a tricky business. How wide a portal is big enough for Akeru’s sails? How much wind do we need to push through? Will the passage stay open, or will it kick us out? I close my eyes and watch the curvature of space, here and in dimensions beyond.

Halt lateral thrust. Akeru obeys my command. Extend vanes one and three into layer aleph-two. Our sails unfurl and catch the winds of underspace. Akeru spins on her forward axis while inching at right angles to the heading we want. Tilt vanes two and four by thirty degrees, and bring our nose down eighteen by twenty.

The ship stops rolling, then yaws and pitches until we’re lined up with the blossoming tunnel. Meagan’s Mercy is eight thousand klicks downwind. Our other three stragglers flounder behind us, trying to deduce where we mean to go. The way to New Bretagne spirals open a fraction more, but it still hasn’t tripped our sensors. No sane pilot would call that an open gate, but then again, I’m no true pilot.

Through the passage, I can suddenly see the whole system: a slightly orange G-type star; the blue water-world of New Bretagne; the giant planet Mab in its elliptical orbit; and the vast, dark curtain of Le Voile. Somewhere down that hole is my mother, the woman whose scorn shaped my life for ten years before chucking me out into the void with no warning. I take a deep breath, then plunge ahead.

Extend all vanes. Rotate two and four to seventy degrees. Forward thrust to full.

Triskle, Noën, and Dara obey, communing with the ship in ways that I can’t, while Akeru begins to pull her massive bulk at last in the proper direction. But slowly, too slowly, like a fly in molasses. If only I could reach to the gate and pull us there.

Come on, come on, I mutter aloud.

Easy, bird, says Hiroki. Trust your ship and show the way.

Captain, I see it, says Noën. I don’t think it’s wide enough.

Kite? says Hiroki. Be true.

W-we can make it. Lower vanes two and four into layer aleph-three. Rotate one and three back by fifty. Cut thrust and hold st-teady with the wind.

The ship rotates at my command. We’re now flying sideways, but angled such a way that we’ll be pointing in the right direction as the gate slides by. Our speed doubles, then triples with the added force of the rip currents in the third layer of underspace.

Aaaand we just flashed our tits, says Noën.

Is anyone in position to intercept? says Hiroki.

No, but everyone’s scrambling their drives.

Gondo reports stress in the cargo lattice, says Dara. He politely requests that we not do fucking cartwheels.

Understood, says Hiroki. Kite, be gentle.

Not a chance. Dara, have Gondo crank the web tight. G-get ready to spread all vanes into aleph-one and go to full thrust on my mark.

You heard the lady, says Hiroki. Let’s let the old girl off the leash. Give me a count?

Ten seconds, captain. I’m shaking now. Five, four, three… Dive!

Triskle spreads our sails like an umbrella in the wind, yanking Akeru into underspace. At the same time, Dara spins the gravity drive to full, and it kicks like the rockets of a thousand years past. Akeru lunges through the gate and beyond.

Riding the hyperwind is like sailing an open sea, but never through a jubilee gate. Here the passage is narrow, the energy flow uneven. We ride the wind’s leading edge while eddies of force try to spin us off our path. Only the pressure of our vanes against the tunnel keeps us from tumbling end over end. Akeru shudders and wrenches, tossing me back and forth in my harness.

The channel’s narrowing, says Triskle. The vanes are going to buckle.

Stay sharp, bird.

Pull in the vanes by twenty, I respond. Dara, can you brace them?

Already on it. Even if the braces hold, the vanes could crumple.

We’re already down the rabbit hole, says Hiroki, but careful with my ship, Kite. Drop us into normal space before you let her implode, if that’s no bother.

Roger that. There’s a squeeze coming up. In three seconds, fold the vanes back to thirty.

On my mark, Triskle retracts the sails, and Akeru shoots through an even tighter channel. Instead of slowing, we rocket faster, the force of the gale increasing through the passage. But then, the ship starts to drag.

Someone’s behind us, says Noën. "It’s Meagan’s Mercy. She must have dropped half her cargo."

And now she’s stealing our wind, says Hiroki. How inconsiderate. Can we push the drive a little harder?

I ignore the chatter while I study the wind. I spot Meagan’s Mercy behind us in the passage, but she’s too small to cause this much drag. I reach past her with my vision, and what I see stops my heart.

C-c-captain, the gate closed behind us. Repeat, the gate has closed. False jubilee!

Hells. All hands prepare to drop from underspace. We’ll chalk this one up to a loss.

Wait. I focus my sight on the path ahead. I feel something there at the end of the tunnel, some force that’s tugging the hyperwind on. Belay that. Extend the vanes to fifty and rotate one and three into layer aleph-two.

Triskle looks to Hiroki for confirmation.

Are you sure? His voice has lost every ounce of levity.

The tunnel’s holding. Extend the vanes and run the engine hot.

Do it. Kite still has the conn.

I watch the tunnel shrink. Behind us, Meagan’s Mercy has already blinked out, falling back into normal space to avoid being crushed as the higher dimensions collapse. If we do the same, we’ll be stranded light-years from rescue in a region of space where the winds don’t blow. We’ll have to wait until the channel reopens before being able to sail again, and that’s if the sudden exit into normal space doesn’t blow our drive.

But I won’t let that happen. I refuse to let it happen. Our passage narrows further. The exit is barely the width of the ship.

Retract all vanes! I shout.

We’ll tumble, says Noën.

Pull them in!

We won’t tumble; there’s no room. The hyperwind scorches the hull, and for the first time I worry about the cargo shields. The last of the wind shoots around us, leaving us behind in its wake. Without the vanes, our drive won’t be enough. Triskle’s hand hovers over the pad that will drop us a half light-year short.

But I see the gate. I can reach it. I unbuckle and kick myself out of my seat, drifting weightless to the center of the bridge. Though the hyperwind is gone, the force beyond the gate beckons. I’m outside the ship. I am the ship. Akeru rests in my heart and my stomach. I reach to the rim of the gate, so near.

And I grab it. I pull the ship forward, and the gate toward me. With all of my will, I fling Akeru at the sun.

I slam into the bulkhead. Someone yells Shit! Someone else unbuckles and grabs me.

Report, says Hiroki.

We’re heading full bore, says Triskle. I don’t know what happened. The winds are gone, but the gate’s still open. Just a few seconds…

Noën buckles me into a seat before snapping herself back in place. Just in time, too. Akeru lurches and my whole mind pops as we dash from the tunnel back into normal space.

Planet! shouts Dara.

I open my eyes to see the umber clouds of Mab rushing directly toward us.

On it, says Triskle. With an expert wave of her hand and a blast of raw code from her mind, Akeru twists and thrusts, using the gas giant as a gravity brake and course correction. Akeru spins around the rim of the world, and there in the distance, a blue gem sparkles against the black of Le Voile.

Welcome to New Bretagne, says Hiroki. Nicely done, little bird. You’re home.

2

MERLIN

The sky was black, though there weren’t any clouds. The last days of winter were holding on tight, and Le Voile blotted out any light from the stars. A solitary globe shone on each corner, but I made sure to remain in the shadows. Most people probably wouldn’t look twice a young man walking down the street, but I couldn’t chance being recognized. Though I wasn’t in the robes of the Faithful, my face was known to anyone who’d ever attended our services. That’s why when I decided to betray the man who raised me, I chose an abandoned house at the edge of the city to do it.

The street itself, the Rue des Cordonniers, was carved into a living branch of the World Oak. The wood here helped to silence my footfalls better than the paving stones in the wealthier parts of St. Canna. The sidewalk was pocked with clumps of moss, slowly reclaiming this whole district to the wild.

I could sense the newness of the moss, just as I felt how ancient was the Oak. I kept my eyes on the recent past to see if anyone had come before me, while switching to the future from moment to moment to make sure that no one would appear. Doing so was a headache, but worth it. When I foresaw that a woman would step out with her trash, I secluded myself in the next doorway over and froze until she went back inside.

The door I pressed against had stood seventy years, and I could feel every one. The well-earned cracks in its paint were a tribute to its otherwise comforting permanence. I squashed the urge to look into its future. I knew what I’d see, and I didn’t want that now.

Once the street was empty, I hurried to my destination five houses down. The home was rotting and ancient, its windows dark and hollow. Only a determined eye would have noticed the new black curtains, and even then, only in daylight. I knocked once on the door, and in the space of four breaths, my accomplice would let me inside.

On cue, Twyla Cambray opened the door. She would light our single lamp once the room was shut behind me. Already looking ahead, I prepared the words I would say after sliding past her in the dark. For me, the present was a blind spot, and even something as simple as having a conversation could be painful.

Were you seen? she asked. It was always her first worry.

No. I moved around her and slumped in an uncomfortable chair with hard padding and wobbly legs. The chair was two hundred and fifty years old, and it was one of my favorite possessions in the world. I sank into the age of it and let my vision relax. I’d need every ounce of concentration to pull off my seventh resurrection.

The chair wouldn’t be part of the ritual. I refused to give it up, and every sacrifice hurt. Each object I destroyed in pursuit of my goal sent more of the precious past into the fire. But other needs were greater if I was going to stop what was coming.

Did you get everything? I asked, trying to time the question in the proper sequence of events.

It’s all here, said Twyla, though it’s getting harder not to leave a trail. I paid some tiffins to bring everything up from below. No one on the street should have noticed.

And the body? I was already peering ahead to the ritual. I’d skipped past the part where she bristled at me.

Of course I have the body. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.

I forced my awareness to come close to the present. Twyla looked angry and a little bit hurt. I twisted my mouth into an apologetic smile, but I wasn’t very good at that sort of thing. I didn’t have the easy charm that my master Emil seemed to pull on like a shirt. It had taken me a year to cultivate Twyla to the point where she was loyal to me and not to him. She thought that I genuinely cared about her, and she longed to be part of my world. What I mainly felt was pity, as well as shame for how I used her.

I’m sorry, I said. Every time I do this, it takes so much out of me. I’m afraid of what this one’s going to cost.

There: vulnerability. It kept Twyla on my side, and even helped me relax, though I’d never show such weakness to Emil.

Did you bring the bones? said Twyla.

Yes, I brought the bones, I almost snapped before stopping myself. Looking ahead, it would have only caused a fight. Instead, I lifted myself from the chair, shuffled off my coat, and unslung my pack. The bones inside were brittle. They’d sat undiscovered on a roof for twenty years. Time had not been kind to the city’s greatest thief.

I zipped open the satchel and pulled out the skull. The jaw was gone, undoubtedly part of a swamp bat’s nest or lost in the mud at the World Oak’s roots. I dipped into the past to confirm for the tenth time that these were indeed the remains of Jacques Mereau, but I retreated before going deeper. I’d learned it wasn’t wise to commune with the dead before resurrecting them. I could read metal, stone, and wood without damaging them, but the remains of the living were fragile. In order for the ritual to work, I’d have only one chance to retrieve the bones’ full history.

Do we have anything to drink? I asked. There was a buzzing at the base of my neck, some interference in the future that drew away my focus. It was hard to ignore, that jittery sensation, but neither could I pinpoint the cause.

Twyla handed me a bottle of ginger water. Her skin was a gorgeous brown, so different from my own freckled white. Her hair was a loose frizz, neither cropped in the current style nor bundled and tied as tradition dictated. To me it was a fractal with no end or beginning. I sipped the cold soda and gave her a smile that felt genuine for once.

What did you bring for our friend? I asked.

Some bisque and bread from Timaria’s. The soup’s gone cold, but it’s better that way. A bag of pralines, a cup of fish-rice, and a couple different flavors of root chips.

He’s not going to eat all that. I don’t know why I said it. Twyla always went for overkill when it came to feeding other people.

I just thought it’d be nice for him to have a selection. I also got that bottle of Aubec you wanted, though I thought you didn’t like for our guests to get drunk.

Mereau’s an exception. Out of all of them, he might be the hardest to control. Some liquid bribery might not be out of order.

Can’t wait to meet him. How are you feeling, baby? Twyla rubbed her hand across my shoulders. I’d seen it coming, so I didn’t flinch away.

Something’s got me on edge. I don’t know what. It’s like a surge of power in the future.

Her eyes perked. Is it the jubilee?

No, that’s days away. This feels closer.

You don’t think Master Bellat—

No, I’d know if it was Emil. It might just be a storm coming, but in any case, we’d better get on with it. I don’t want the weather to mess this up.

I shook the kinks out my shoulders, then walked the room. It had been a reception hall back in the days when this house’s family owned plantations to the south. Now those plantations were gone into the swamp, and no one needed a parlor so large in this decrepit part of town.

On the floor, I’d drawn a circle in white paint. Chalk was traditional, but meaningless. I wasn’t putting on a show, I just needed a coordinate system. At five equidistant points I’d placed marks for the staging of the relics. I’d forgone the customary pentagram, as it, like the chalk, was merely for the rubes.

In the middle of the circle was a table, lying on which was a young man’s body that Twyla had stripped and washed. I gave it a glance to make sure it looked healthy. It was pallid and thin, with scars on the arms and pustules on the thighs, but that was normal for a Typhon’s Kiss addict. At least the body was male. That would make putting Mereau in it easier.

The table was a hundred years old, but it looked twice that age now. I’d used it in my last two resurrections, and I touched its battered wood to reassure myself that it would serve one last time. I watched the body long enough to confirm that it was breathing, then turned my attention to the relics.

There were no manuals on resurrecting the dead; I’d had to work out how to do it on my own. Retrieving data from the past and dumping it into a present-day receptacle—in this case, placing a deceased personality inside a living host—required energy, and energy came from matter. I found it worked best if the objects I sacrificed were older than the subject in question and, if possible, bore some connection either to myself or the soul I was reviving. That last part had been tricky in the case of Mereau.

The first artifact this night was a porcelain vase from Calafar. Next around the circle was a writing desk, one hundred and fifty years old, that came from the house where I’d lived as a child. At the third station, opposite from where I would sit, stood a mirror that was barely older than my subject. I didn’t know that having a mirror was necessary per se, but I’d found that it helped my revenants to accept their new bodies.

Next in line was a pile of heavy chain that Twyla and I stole from the river dock. Last in the circle was the pièce de résistance: a jacket worn by Mereau himself that had been passed down from his father. I’d found it as a showpiece in a private collection and used my position among the Faithful to acquire it. Of all the items, it was the only one Emil knew I owned. That in itself wasn’t a worry. Emil knew I collected such things, and it would only be an issue if he found out it was gone.

I checked the body one last time. The brain-dead young man was barely older than myself. I wondered what his complaint had been. A broken home? A jilted love? I could’ve found out, but I didn’t care enough. There were more respectable ways to kill yourself than drugs, but none so useful to my purpose.

I’m ready, I said. Let’s do it.

Twyla spread