Boom

by

Ben Farthing

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

BOOM

First edition. May 15, 2020.

Copyright © 2020 Ben Farthing.

Written by Ben Farthing.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six | INTERLUDE

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen | INTERLUDE

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven | INTERLUDE

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty | INTERLUDE

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six | Epilogue

Author’s Note | Thanks for getting lost in the Periphery with me.

Chapter One

Three minutes before Everard Harrison was attacked by the Perforated Woman, he switched off a Bowie/Mercury duet to rehearse both parts in an impending argument with his girlfriend.

D.C. traffic grumbled motionlessly around him, stuck in the heavy August air.

He spoke to his toolbox on the passenger seat. “Abby, here it is straight. I’d love to spend Christmas with your parents, but I can’t risk applying for a passport.”

Despite eleven months together, Everard didn’t know how she’d respond. He’d never opened up to anyone about the legalities of his identity.

The light turned green, but some idiot in an SUV blocked the intersection.

Everard skirted around the backup by detouring into an office parking lot. A wall of pine trees isolated the property, dulling the traffic noise.

The traffic noise faded. The lot was strangely empty of people.

His phone rang through the stereo. “Call from. Abby.”

“Nope.” He jabbed the ignore button. “Not yet.”

A woman stumbled out from behind a parked car. Everard stomped on the brake, launching his tools onto the floor mat.

Not eight feet in front of him, the woman tripped. She fell to her hands and knees, frazzled black hair hanging over her face, either breathing deep or sobbing.

Everard had a policy against asking strangers why they were crying. He wasn't sure what his policy said about crying strangers who were in your way. Everard tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

He wanted to get home, sit back in his recliner, and watch Alex Trebec’s condescending banter. 

"This counts as my good deed for the month." He parked the truck and approached the woman.

She breathed in deep gasps. Not crying - hyperventilating.

"Hey, are you all right?" A stupid question.

He spotted a scrap of paper next to her that she must have dropped. He picked it up and touched her shoulder. She looked up. Her expression wasn't panic, but exhaustion, like she'd just run a marathon. Sweat beaded on her skin and glistened in her hair. She was slender, slightly older than Everard—probably mid-thirties—and gorgeous despite the blemishes across her cheek.

"I'm fine," she breathed, gently pushing his hand away. She looked excited to see him.

"Then why are you sitting in the parking..."

He forgot his words as the blemishes moved, crossing her nose and mouth to rest beneath her ear.

Everard jerked back.

It wasn't acne, or age spots, or scars. It was a swarm of holes, moving both together and independently like a school of fish. Each deep enough to show teeth or bone, but instead only revealing pink flesh descending into shadow.

His stomach clenched, his throat tightened.

"What..." he said. The word promised more, delivered nothing. He wanted to run back to the truck, but fascination mixed in with revulsion as he watched the perforations.

"You're going to make him so handsome.” Her soothing voice amplified the oddity of her skin. The holes swam out of sight beneath her shirt, appeared on her hand, then disappeared back up her sleeve. She saw him watching. "Entrancing, aren't they? Imagine how they feel."

The holes glided over her face, over—oh, God—over her eyes, her open eyes, tiny fleshy pits slipping along whites and blues and irises. He should run. That's what he should do, and he would, as soon as he could figure out what was going on with her skin.

She pulled a narrow, golden rod from her pocket, like a leather awl or a nail punch. Humming to herself, the woman touched it to her cheek as the swarm slid past, and Everard thought maybe the swimming school left one fish behind, pulled into the golden awl. The woman tilted her head and pursed her lips, like a child with a crayon, deciding where to color first.

Everard's gaze locked on the awl. He didn't want that near him, but still, his feet wouldn't move.

Drop it, he thought, the awl coming closer, pulling hand and arm and the woman behind it. Drop it. Callused fingers with painted, chipped nails gripped the awl tight. You're going to drop it. It's going to slip out of your fingers, and then I'm going to run back to my truck. Still it came, and a sensation under his eye, beside his nose, of a single pore widening, opening into a gaping maw to welcome this unwanted intruder.

Why can't I move? Drop it. His opening pore yearned for the gold, the empty presence it carried. You can't keep your grip. You've been exerting yourself and your sweat is too slick you can't hold on you can't.

The thought pushed through a gritty dredge, a scratching silt that squeezed it, shoved at it, until the thought exploded through into openness.

The awl slipped out of her fingers, tinged on the asphalt.

The world snapped into focus. Everard touched his face to find smooth skin, no gaping pores.

Finding his legs worked again, he didn't pause to appreciate the coincidence of her dropping the awl as he imagined it.

He dashed for the truck and smashed into a man. The newcomer grabbed Everard's shoulders to inspect his face.

"Yep, you're him," he said with a harmonic lilt that sounded like two voices. He gave Everard a wide, open-mouthed grin, revealing two tongues, side by side.

Everard's stomach twisted. He'd never heard of a birth defect that split your tongue in two.

"Walk away." The woman approached the man, tiny weapon in hand. The swarm of holes spread out across her face, condensed on her chin, then disappeared down her collar. "Undone Duncan has already claimed him."

Doubt flickered in his expression, but the man spat back in his duel voice, "Get in line."

Everard kicked a steel-toed boot into the man's kneecap. Something popped, and his second attacker crumpled to the ground, screaming a duet. Everard jumped in the truck, slammed and locked the door. He dropped the paper as he fumbled for both the gear shift and his phone at once, needing to both be gone and call for help.

The woman brought the bottom of her fist against the window. The awl in her grip cracked the glass into a tiny spiderweb.

Everard threw the truck into drive while trying to dial 911. Right as he hit send, the screen switched to the "Receiving Call" animation and the truck speakers played a split second of his ringtone.

He maneuvered the truck around the man still writhing on the ground. The woman hit his window again, and the spiderweb grew to the size of his fist.

Abby's voice filled the cab. "Everard?"

"Hey," he grunted. He floored the accelerator. The truck lurched between gears.

"What are you doing?" asked Abby.

He wanted to say, "Running for my life from Ripley's Belive-It-Or-Not rejects," but it came out as, "um."

The woman hit the window once more before the truck outdistanced her. Everard swerved out of the far end of the parking lot, forcing a BMW to brake to avoid hitting him.

"What was that noise?" asked Abby. "Are you okay?"

Everard breathed deep, watching through his mirrors to see if the woman with the holes was still following. She wasn't, but the guy in the BMW gave him the one-fingered salute.

"Hey, sorry," he said. He almost told her to call 911, that he'd just been attacked, but what would he say attacked him? Instead, he went with, “I’m here.”

"What's going on?"

He opened his mouth, but the words didn't come. He'd been attacked by a two-tongued man and a woman with a roving swarm of holes in her skin. Abby wouldn't believe that. He didn't think he believed it. "Nothing. I was, uh, trying to call someone else."

He stopped at a red light.

"I called you."

He touched his face again, reassuring himself in its completeness, thinking he'd feel more reassured if it was Abby's fingers playing against his cheek.

It was just acne, he told himself. Some acned, crackhead homeless woman and her friend with a botched tongue-piercing had attacked him. That's all.

But they’d been looking for him.

"Everard? I called you."

"Right, I mean—"

The BMW honked. The light was green. The scrap of paper he'd picked up by the woman caught his eye. He grabbed it.

"Please," said Abby. "Can we talk? I think I freaked you out the other night, but come on, it’s just my parents. It’s not like I’m asking for a ring."

"Yeah, let’s talk. But let me call you back." The scrap was a ripped photocopy. The top had half a photograph, the bottom a block of text.

"No. I have questions. When you fell asleep at my place the other night, you got like four calls in a row from someone named Liz."

Fucking fantastic. Abby finding out about Liz was a disaster in itself, but Everard would deal with it later. Right now he couldn't look away from the paper. "I really need to call you back."

"You can't be serious."

The photo was of Everard unlocking his front door. Whoever they were, they were watching him, tainting the peace and privacy of his own home.

The truck rolled forward as Everard's foot slipped off the brake. The BMW roared around him on the shoulder, tires spitting up gravel. Everard pulled over.

"I'm really sorry," he said. "I'll call you tonight. I promise."

"Fine." Abby ended the call.

Below the photocopied picture, the printed text that hadn't been ripped away read:

-rard

-rison

And then scrawled below, originally in marker but now photocopied:

other

Someone had finally discovered him, realized that his real identity had disappeared years ago, and Everard Harrison was a creation of a bribed system administrator at the Social Security office.

And now that someone was sending people after him.

A tiny, dark blur swept over his wrist. He jerked back, smacked it hard enough to sting. A stinkbug had landed on the window, casting a shadow.

He wanted to get home, sit in his recliner, and turn on Jeopardy. But now he had to figure out what—who, he corrected himself—was after him.

Everard pulled onto the road and switched back on his music. He headed home, numb, while David Bowie ignored ground control's pleas to respond.

Chapter Two

Everard parked his truck in front of his townhouse thirty minutes later. He peered around the parking lot, searching for cars that didn't belong.

A few other neighbors were getting home, slamming car doors, swinging by the mailboxes, hurrying to their respective homes to escape the August humidity.

He lay his head back and closed his eyes, mind racing in circles, figuring out what to do next.

A deafening boom resonated through the city, rattled the hammer and prybar in his passenger seat. He jumped, then took a breath.

His scurrying neighbors stopped and looked around, confused but getting used to confusion. They shrugged at each other and continued with their scurrying.

Five times now this boom had interrupted the peace of the DC metro area. Everard didn't bother switching to the news, since he already knew what they'd be saying. Yes, we heard it, too. Yes, it's bizarre. No, there's nothing to worry about. And then some experts or government grunts would come on and say it wasn't an explosion, just a noise, no need to worry about Al Qaeda or ISIS, it was probably a prank, even though you could hear in their voice they didn't have a clue, either.

A few hours ago, Everard could have cared about the community mystery. Now it seemed trivial, next to what he’d just escaped from. He felt powerless.

He kept his Walther and a box of ammunition in his nightstand drawer. Once he got that loaded and in his hand, his options for his next step increased exponentially.

The eerie movement of the swarm of holes leapt back to his mind, the opening sensation on his own skin. The image clung to his thoughts like a remembered papercut.

He shouted, then punched the steering wheel to clear his head. He tried to convince himself this flyer wasn't about him. The picture was kinda blurry. "-rard" could be the ending to plenty of names.

Gerard.

Other names he couldn't think of right now.

That was stupid. Someone was after him. Multiple someones, probably headed here right now, since that photo meant they knew where he lived. Who had he pissed off?

The August humidity pressed down on him as he stepped out of the truck. As he walked to his front door, he noticed the back of the ripped paper.

Reward

House of Burg-

Only information delivered-

Regulars will not qualify-

This was a bounty. Someone organized, and with deep enough pockets to throw money around. Living and running a business under a made-up identity meant that the IRS, or the Social Security Administration, or the D.C. Corporation Division would be unhappy with him, but photocopied wanted flyers weren't really their MO.

And he didn't know any government office that started with "House of Burg."

This was something else.

He realized he was standing out in the open, and hurried to his door.

"Everard?"

He practically jumped out of his skin.

His elderly neighbor stuck his head outside. Wild white hair, snowball sideburns, and undone suspenders made him look like a hobo who'd charmed his way into a nice townhouse.

The curtains in the window were literally sackcloth, and he decorated his tiny front yard with brown and orange plaid plastic flamingos. It pissed off the HOA, which Everard thought was hilarious. He didn't even know where you bought plaid flamingos.

The old man introduced himself as Bill Bill when he moved in a month ago. Everard liked the guy, loved how he scandalized the neighbors. He even had him over to watch the 'Nats lose and listen to his old-man-ramblings every week or so.

But there was no denying that Bill Bill marched to the beat of a differently-abled drummer. Not the kind of man you wanted around when you were being hunted. Better to get rid of him.

"Hey, Bill Bill. I'm kind of in a hurry."

"You hear that boom?" he spoke with a Maryland drawl. He asked the question like a little boy who'd seen a wild animal. Excitement, with a little fear.

"I think everyone did."

"Wild, huh?"

"Annoying, but wild, too, I guess."

"Say, could you lend me a hand with something?"

Everard swallowed a groan. Bill Bill had been asking for more and more odd favors. Pick up a rare spice from a Lebanese butcher in Falls Church. Go knock on his aunt's door in Bethesda to ask her favorite color (the woman must be a hundred and ten). Ask a rare book dealer about a signed edition of Once, Under the Bridge by Edgar Allen Poe (on which a Google search pulled up nothing).

Eating wings with him was one thing. Running his errands was another. He'd always found an excuse, but the last two times, he'd promised "next time." Although today was especially bad timing.

"I'm sorry, can it wait?"

"It's really important. Life or death, almost." Bill Bill's cheery tone was not that of a man dealing with a life or death situation.

"Next time," said Everard.

"Well, when you've got a second, give me a holler." Bill Bill went back inside, leaving his door open.

Everard stuck his key in his deadbolt. He wished he could relax in front of the TV, and open up his aquarium catalogue. But he needed to get his pistol and then deal with this whole situation.

Inside, the floorboards creaked.

Everard hesitated, listened. Another neighbor pulled into the parking lot, but even over the motor's rumbling, Everard thought he heard the soft groan of someone gently stepping off the loose spot in his hall.

Chills ran up his spine. He stood in the same position as in the photo, on his front porch, hand on the doorknob.

Someone was in his house. Invading his life. He'd left his tool belt in the truck, but he didn't need a hammer to break someone's jaw. He ignored thoughts of roving perforations, letting his anger take over. He unlocked the deadbolt and jerked the key out of the lock.

"Everard." Bill Bill had stuck his head back outside. "What are you doing?"

"Going inside."

"No, you're not."

Everard's burst of impulsive fury calmed down. What if the people inside were armed? What if it was the freaks who'd already attacked him?

"If you're going to waste the evening farting around on your porch, might as well come help me over here first."

"Yeah, okay." He couldn't get to his pistol. What did he do now?

He jogged over to his neighbor's porch.

The car he'd heard pull up still idled in its space. Everard felt sure he'd never seen it before - a dark green towncar that warbled in the heat. Although, it was the only car in the lot affected by that warping optical illusion.

Two silhouettes watched him from behind tinted glass. Not the two who'd attacked him in the business park, but definitely watching him.

Everard shook his head in denial. No. The figures flinched.

The car's engine shut off, and birdsong filled the ensuing silence.

"Come on in." Bill Bill waved him inside. "I'll show you what needs doing."

Everard gave the car another look, then followed Bill Bill. He shut and bolted the door behind him.

United States flags hung on either side of the hallway, one with a ring of 13 stars, another with two circles of stars, one with the stars forming a bigger star. No two flags the same, but all red, yellowed white, and blue.

"I think it's back here," Bill Bill yelled from down the hallway.

Everard peered out the window. The silhouettes still sat in the car.

Breathing deep, Everard rubbed the sweat from his brow. There was always the option of just cutting town. He hated running away.

If he only had his Walther, he could confront whoever was in that car, and whoever was in his house.

But that wasn't the only gun in town.

He sent a quick text to Diondre.

I need something ASAP. Don't care about the model. Tell me where to meet you.

"Are you coming?" called Bill Bill.

Everard ducked under a cuckoo clock nailed to the ceiling, past the kitchen (and a smell of unfamiliar meat frying), and around the corner. Bill Bill had been at Everard's four or five times, but Everard had never been over here. It felt like a seven-year-old's drawing of an antique shop, come to life.

It was like Bill Bill, himself: haphazard and esoteric, but with some logic behind it all. Not any logic Everard could follow, but still.

"Where'd it go?" muttered Bill Bill, digging through papers in a wooden chest that would have served as a coffee table and the living room's centerpiece, if the room wasn't full of junk.

Everard's heart sank as he realized what he'd just done: he'd shown his pursuers that Bill Bill was his friend. If Everard disappeared, they'd come after Bill Bill for information. If he took off to get a gun now, they'd come straight for the old guy.

He got distracted by a fish tank as big as a refrigerator, water murky, with a contraption of wood and pulleys above, fishing line pulled taut into the brown, rectangular pond. The pulley zipped as the line jerked one way and then the other, as if an invisible fisherman were battling a great hidden beast below.

Everard leaned toward the glass.

"Don't touch that," snapped Bill Bill, now yanking books off an unfinished oak shelf, letting them lie where they fell.

Two muskets rested on ten-penny nails driven into the wall. Everard didn't know enough about historical firearms to say what they were, but he was pretty sure they used black powder to launch a lead ball on a wildly inaccurate journey.

Everard considered for a moment borrowing a musket to confront his houseguests or the people in the town car. But of course that wouldn't work. Maybe if the muskets had bayonets.

Bill Bill pulled his pockets inside out. "Hmm. Not there either."

Everard's phone buzzed with Diondre's response. I'm downtown. But if you can get to me, we can do business.

"You know, why don't we go grab some burgers?" Maybe Everard could at least get him out of the house, or even bring him along to Diondre. Keep an eye on him until he could sort this out. "Then I'll help you with whatever you need."

"Not hungry," said Bill Bill. "And I changed my mind. I'm gonna help you."

"Help me with what?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. If his new neighbor knew about the bounty, that suggested he was involved.

"I'm gonna let you spend some time with George." Bill Bill stuck his finger in the air and grinned ear to ear.

Everard was being paranoid. Bill Bill was clueless. About the bounty, and just in general. "Who's George?"

Bill Bill lowered himself to his hands and knees - a tough move for a man who had to be pushing eighty - to peer under an end table.

"What are you looking for?" asked Everard.

"Carrier," said Bill Bill, who'd moved on to pulling up couch cushions.

Everard looked around the room. "Like, a model of a ship?"

"What? No, a little cage for a cat."

Everard pointed to a pile of wooden crates. A blue plastic and metal wire pet carrier hid behind rough oak slats.

"There it is!" Bill Bill shoved aside a crate to snatch up the carrier. "Now I just need to find a cat."

He hurried up the stairs, aggressively shouting, "Here kitty kitty!"

Everard stepped to Bill Bill's back door. Their row of townhouses shared a sliver of maintained grass. Behind that was 10th Street, and then a sparse forest of white pines, golden brown needles lining the ground. Through fifty feet of that was the Brookland Metro Station. Everard craned to look behind his own house. Nothing seemed out of place.

He couldn't babysit Bill Bill; what was he thinking? These people were still coming after him. Leaving Bill Bill at home was dangerous, but keeping him nearby was even worse.

"Hey," Everard called up the stairs. "Do you have any family you could go visit for a few days?"

Everard could buy him a bus ticket.

"Nope," came the response.

So a bus ticket and a hotel room.

Hell, he had enough cash in his wallet from his finished job to give Bill Bill a weekend getaway. That should be enough to make sure Everard didn't accidentally get his neighbor killed. Old people liked gambling, right? He'd send him to Atlantic City.

Everard called a cab company. Living by a metro station had the benefit of always having cabs waiting nearby. They told him 3 minutes.

Everard ended the call and replied to Diondre's text. On my way. 30 min. Tell me where to meet you.

He considered joining Bill Bill in the cab, but the metro was probably his best option, assuming it wasn't late. The quicker he could get the old man away from him, the safer Bill Bill would be.

Bill Bill shouted in surprise. Everard dashed to the stairs to find him at the top.

"Are you all right, Bill?"

"My name is Bill Bill. Bill was my father." He cackled, then held up the carrier like a fisherman showing off his catch. "I found George."

Everard caught his breath. Crazy old man. He glanced to make sure the front door was still bolted.

Bill Bill limped down the stairs wearing a tophat and carrying the locked cage, which now shifted with the weight of an angry, rowling cat, whose black and white fur stood on end. Bill Bill thrust the carrier into Everard's hands.

"George can help you."

Yep. This guy was a few tools short of a well-stocked truck.

"Help me with what?"

"Stress, loneliness, mice. You name it, really."

"I don't want a cat. I'm allergic."

"You can't have him," said Bill Bill, offended. "He needs an operation. He's too excited around the lady felines. Snip snip, and whatnot."

"I'm not neutering your cat."

"Course not. Just take him to the vet."

"Oh okay, well, sure. Wait, no. Listen, Bill Bill." Everard spoke slowly and clearly. He had to be gentle about this, as getting authoritative would make the old man stubborn. "I'm giving you a weekend away."

"No, I just need to get George to the vet."

"Right, I understand that. But wouldn't you like to spend a day playing the slots?"

"I've always been a bigger fan of blackjack. Women don't care when you get triple cherries, but if you get blackjack? Watch out, they'll be on you like you're James Bond himself."

"Then grab a change of clothes and your toothbrush, because I'm treating you to a weekend of blackjack. The cab's already on its way." Everard heard slow footsteps through the wall. Someone was walking up his stairs.

"I've got a bug-out bag in my closet." Bill Bill shoved the carrier into Everard's arms and limped back into his living room. "We'll drop George off on the way."

"No, I'm not coming," said Everard. "Is your leg okay?"

"Just a little soreness, but I might tell it to go away." Bill Bill cackled. "That's a joke you'll get later on."

Everard smiled awkwardly. That's what the elderly really wanted from younger people, right? Awkward smiles and politeness.

Bill Bill opened a closet door, releasing a wave of refrigerated air. He pulled out a camouflage backpack and shut the door. Everard didn't get a look inside to see why it was so cold.

"This here's my bug-out bag," said Bill Bill. "It's got two days of clothes, food, toiletries, water, and of course, nine and a half pounds of enriched wheat flour."

Everard didn't care if the man brought a Faberge Egg collection, as long as he got moving.

"Do you need anything? Tape recorder? Hat?" asked Bill Bill.

"Actually, a hat would be great." Everard could use a way to change his appearance a little. "You don't have some sunglasses I could borrow, do you?"

"My Nationals cap is under that throw pillow." He pointed to the couch. "Unless you want my tophat."

"The baseball cap is fine," said Everard, grabbing the hat from its hiding place.

Bill Bill went to the kitchen. "I've got some sunglasses in my junk drawer."

This whole place looked like a junk drawer.

He came back with a pair of perfectly round, John Lennon style sunglasses. Weird looking, but they'd do. It was at least different from how he looked in the wanted flyer. "The cab's probably here."

Bill Bill put the backpack over his shoulders and tightened the straps. He pulled two business cards from his pocket, and placed one on top of the cat carrier. "This is the vet's address. So we both have one."

Whether Bill Bill meant for George or Everard to have the card was anyone's guess.

Everard shepherded his neighbor to the back door, carrying George. "I told them to meet us out here." He opened the sliding glass door, setting off a series of bells and chimes throughout the house.

"I like to know when company arrives," said Bill Bill.

"I need something like that." Everard leaned outside, decided it was clear, and led the way to the cab. "Tell him to swing by your vet, and then take you to the bus station."

Bill Bill cupped Everard's cheek in his hand. "Thank you so much for this."

"Not a problem." Everard's jaw twitched, and he jumped. "You shocked me."

Bill Bill cackled. "Sorry about that. You know how it is with this humidity." He got into the back seat, and shut the door.

"Hold on," said Everard, still holding George's carrier, and reaching for his wallet. "You need the money for the trip."

Bill Bill rolled down the window. "Okay, I'll meet you at the vet."

The cab rolled away.

"Wait," Everard shouted.

Bill Bill stuck his head out the window. "Don't trust anyone in a suit!"

Everard yelled again, but the cab kept right on until it turned the corner, out of sight. He ran his hand through his hair. A warm breeze blew through the sparse trees, and another car cruised down 10th.

What just happened? That crazy old man couldn't stop yammering for thirty seconds to let Everard get a word in edgewise, and now he was going to get himself killed. Which would still be Everard's fault.

This was a disaster. If Bill Bill came back here, these thugs would probably be waiting. Everard didn't have any choice but to meet him at the vet's to give him the money. Not to mention the cat. He could leave George here, but then Bill Bill might want to come back for him. Plus, he hated abandoning even an animal to whoever was after him.

The festive alarm system went off again. Everard didn't see anyone, but he booked it to the metro station as fast as he could without drawing more attention.

Alone with his thoughts, he found the swarming holes on that woman's skin pushing themselves to the front of his mind.

A quick look over his shoulder said no one was following.

He could handle this. He'd swing by Diondre, meet up with Bill Bill, then head back home to get reacquainted with his houseguests.

Chapter Three

"Well, George," said Everard, walking up the metro station stairs, "say goodbye to your balls."

George meowed in resignation.

The noisy metro station's air conditioning gave a cool break from the stuffy train, but walking back up to the street felt like walking into a sauna, even in the early evening.

He looked around to get his bearings. Downtown D.C. was a mix of white brick buildings with columns and arches, and glass and steel office buildings, all shorter than 160 feet, the height of the Capitol building dome. Or maybe it was the Washington Monument. Everard couldn't remember. Either way, it made for an open, airy feel in this heart of urbanity.

Since it was after six on a Thursday, there were far more people leaving downtown than arriving. The typical D.C. crowd - suits, expensive shoes, and important jobs(or at least well-paying jobs) - clicked their leather soled shoes along the sidewalks. But Everard figured he shouldn't criticize. These were the people paying him to make their houses look pretty.

The cat turned circles in his carrier, shifting its weight awkwardly.

Everard checked the business card. It read: 728 32nd St NW.

That was all. No business name, phone number, or email. All printed in Comic Sans. "Ah geez, I hope Bill Bill didn't give me the wrong card."

And that address was farther than he'd thought. He'd have to hop back on the Metro after finding Diondre.

A boom echoed through the city. The people around him ducked and frantically looked around. Idiots. This had been going on for two weeks. Nothing was going to happen.

Everard headed for the restaurant Diondre had texted him.

The crowd of slightly over-achieving government workers trickled out of their offices to head home (the seriously over-achieving crowd would stay at least a few more hours). It was a weekday, but still summer vacation, so families of tourists wandered over from the Smithsonians and monuments looking for places to eat.

Still, there were fewer people around than he expected. Usually twice as many people filled the sidewalks. Maybe it was a holiday he'd forgotten.

He glanced around to see if anyone was following him. He didn't notice anyone who'd been on the train with him, but there was no way to know who might have their own copy of the wanted flyer.

He caught himself staring at a passerby. The guy had stitches all along where his chin met his neck, and outlining his nose. With skin that pale, he must be recovering from some kind of plastic surgery. He caught Everard staring.

Everard looked away and quickened his pace. He hated thinking he'd made the guy self-conscious about his looks.

He reached the intersection, spotted a Brazilian Steakhouse, and jogged across the crosswalk. He texted Diondre. I'm outside. Where are you?

"Everard." Diondre leaned against a wall by a food cart, eating a sandwich half-wrapped in white paper. He wore nice jeans and a polo, in the baggy style that urban culture had held on to while the rest of the country competed over whose pants could crush their balls the worst.

Everard leaned against the wall next to him. "Thanks for meeting me. Do you have somewhere we can go, or...?"

A thin crowd still trickled along the sidewalks.

Diondre swallowed a bite of ham and turkey, then motioned with his chin to the ground at his feet. "Nah, I got your sandwich in the bag."

Everard set down George's carrier to pick up the bag and looked inside.

"Why'd you bring your cat?" asked Diondre.

"Long story." There was another paper-wrapped bundle, but also a tiny pistol designed for concealed carry, a Ruger or Beretta by the smooth look of it. No holster. "Were you out of BB guns?"

"C'mon, I was out with my girl, and you said ASAP. This is what I had on me."

Turning the bag into the fading sunlight, Everard took a closer look. "It's a nine millimeter?"

"Would you hush?"

"No one's paying attention to us," said Everard.

"Yes, it's a nine," said Diondre. "Six rounds, plus one in the chamber."

"There's one in the chamber now?"

"Hell, no. I'm not trying to accidentally kill nobody." Diondre took another bite as a federal security guard walked by. Once she'd passed, he said, "what do you want it for?"

Everard named a generous price.

"Nah, man. What are you gonna do with it?"

"What, you want to do a background check while we're at it? You didn't grill me last time."

"Last time you didn't say ASAP. If you're angry at your ex's new boyfriend or something, I think you better come to church with me before you do something stupid."

"I didn't realize you were a moral illegal weapons salesmen."

Another man with stitches walked by.

"All my guns are legal models. But plenty of people don't want their names in no registry. I don't sell to nobody angry."

Everard could respect that. "I pissed off some dangerous people. I might need to defend myself later tonight. And possibly my neighbor."

"What'd you do?"

"I honestly don't know."

"But you aren't planning on going straight somewhere and shooting nobody?"

"No." He had to go to the vet first.

"Okay, let's see the cash."

Everard pulled out his wallet.

"Be cool, man. Don't wave it around. Hand it to me with your business card."

He tucked eight bills under a business card and gave them to Diondre, who counted it with one hand, then drew a line on one bill with a brown marker. He accepted the offering price so quickly Everard realized he could have got a better deal.

"Cool, cool. My girl's probably pissed I left her alone so long. Take care." Diondre tossed the rest of his sandwich in the trash and went inside the restaurant.

Everard crouched in front of George's carrier to quickly move the pistol from the bag to his waistband without being obvious about it.

Now that he could defend himself, his problems felt a lot more manageable. He hoped meeting up with Bill Bill would go as smoothly.

He glanced at the vet's business card again.

299 12th St NW

Something strange about that address.

Closer than he thought. Only a few blocks away, probably right across Constitution Avenue from the National Mall. Weird place for a vet.

A third man with stitches walked down the sidewalk, this one looking like the surgeon had botched it. After the afternoon he'd had, Everard didn't like coincidences. He stiffened, touched his waistband. The stitched man walked on past.

Must be some plastic surgery support group nearby. Nothing too weird. Everard scratched at his cheek.

With the carrier in one hand and the paper bag in the other (he hadn't eaten dinner yet, after all), he walked south.

Everard passed the IRS building, which stood on the corner of 12th and Constitution.

The address above the door caught Everard's attention:

302 12th St NW

His shoulders dropped. This building took up the whole block. 299 would be just south of the next road... on the Mall.

He looked across Constitution Avenue, at the backs of two Smithsonian museums. Manicured lawns and trimmed maple trees said that there were no veterinary clinics tucked away in any corner.

Bill Bill had given him the wrong card. The old man probably didn't know what year it was—no use getting angry at him.

"Don't suppose you can tell me where your vet is?" Everard asked George. He crossed Constitution, enjoying the implanted nature while he figured out his next step. Bill Bill would probably head back home once Everard didn't show up, which meant Everard should get back there first to deal with whoever was waiting.

The thought made him anxious. He'd never shot anyone, and preferred to keep it that way. He was confident he could, though. He logged a couple hours every month at the shooting range.

Looking at the business card again, Everard sat on a bench. He set the carrier next to him. George meowed.

"Don't worry too much about it," he consoled the cat. "There's more to life than sex."

Calling the cops was out of the question. They'd make him file a report, and while Everard Harrison definitely existed in some government records, the name wasn't in all of them. Too much scrutiny and they might notice that despite being twenty-nine, the records had only appeared thirteen years ago.

If he wanted to keep living under the radar, he had to deal with these people - and their bounty - himself.

He stood and paced, psyching himself up to head back and try to be an action star. He held the business card with both hands.

"Two ninety-nine would be..." he walked a few steps north. "Here."

He faced a tree, and looked up into the branches. "Any vets up there?" he called.

When he looked back down, there was a staircase descending into the ground.

A wrought iron hand railing held a plaque:

299 12th St NW

Both the Comic Sans font and the address itself matched the business card.

Steps curved down out of sight.

Everard looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Wait. How had he not noticed? He'd walked past it a second before. It wasn't until he was looking for the address that he'd seen it.

He walked a circle around it, but couldn't see any deeper.

Weird. Must go to the basement of one of the Smithsonians.

Bill Bill had given him the wrong business card. Of course, that raised the question: what connection did his crazy old neighbor have with whatever waited at the bottom of these stairs?

A woman carrying a briefcase walked past without so much as glancing at the staircase. A tourist family with bored teenagers did the same.

Everard picked up George's carrier. He could investigate this mystery on a day there weren't people out to get him.

George rowled, low and deep.

"What are you still angry about?"

The pale white stitched man was crossing Constitution, headed directly for Everard, a scrap of paper in his fist, about the size of Everard's wanted flyer.

Everard moved to the other side of the path. The man still headed for him. Everard turned around. From the other direction came another man with stitches, skin hanging loose and sickly like another victim of botched surgery.

The thin crowd of tourists didn't seem to notice either man.

The swarm of holes jumped to the front of Everard's mind, the sickening feeling he'd got from the woman crept back into his gut.

Everard reached for the Ruger, but he couldn't open fire here. And he doubted he'd be able to sprint past them. What he needed was a place to get the drop on these guys, so he could ask a few questions.

He looked at the staircase.

"Good enough." He walked casually toward the stairs, timing it so he'd reach them as a pink-shirted tourist group passed by.

Under bright-colored cover, Everard ducked underground.

Chapter Four

Everard stepped up out of the staircase.

He felt a low buzz through his body that died down as he took another step.

He paused. Behind him, spiraling cement stairs descended into the ground. He'd walked down into the dark, around the bend—still going down—and then found himself ascending.

How could he have got so turned around that he didn't realize he'd starting going up?

There was no way he'd blacked out. He checked his phone. There was no missing time.

As his eyes adjusted, a car horn echoed up the stairs, the sounds of Constitution Avenue proclaiming that it was still there, below him somehow.

Footsteps banged up the iron steps.

Everard squinted into the darkness to find a place to hide. That trippy staircase had robbed him of all intentions to jump the stitched men.

His first thought was that he was in some poorly lit, underground warehouse, wide enough that he couldn't see the walls, with massive gray cement structures holding up a roof high enough that he could barely see it.

This was not how he imagined a Smithsonian basement. Soft earth gave a little under his feet, with brown and white strands sticking up like a sparse imitation of grass.

He ran light-footed to one of the structures, and sat against it, hoping the shadow covered him. He shushed George and pulled the Ruger from his waistband. Let him get his bearings, and then he could think about questioning his pursuers.

The stitched men appeared out of the staircase. They ran right by, as if they thought they knew where he'd be.

Everard exhaled. He'd go after them in a second. Maybe.

For now, though, where was he?

Brick made up the first few feet of the structure he leaned against, and then blank cement stretched high above.

Everard's gaze followed it up into the shadows. Splotches of light glowed above, forming constellations more like deep sea phosphorescence than starlight. They gave off most of the light in the cavern, alongside a dim glow from around the far edge of the cement structure.

"You go to a weird vet," he told George.

Footsteps echoed up the stairs. Down. Whatever.

Everard stood, brushing dirt off his pants.

A woman in a red dress - more Little House On The Prairie than Lady In Red - hurried out of the staircase, saw Everard, and hesitated. "Oh," she said. "Hi."

"Hey." Everard held the gun behind his back.

"Well." She hiked her bag up higher on her shoulder. "Don't mind me."

She walked past Everard, towards the glow at the end of the cement structure.

"Wait," he called. "Where are we?"

Something clinked in her bag as she turned around. "Are you teasing? You wouldn't be here if you didn't know. As if you wouldn't know."

"I really don't."

"Why'd you bring a cat?"

"Oh, I'm looking for a vet, I guess." He lifted George's carrier, so she could see inside.

"He doesn't look sick."

"He's supposed to get neutered."

She scrunched her nose. "Horrid practice. I don't know of any veterinarians in this nook, but if you find one, ask to keep the testicles. I'll pay you a pretty penny for them."

Everard coughed.

"It's not as weird as it sounds. And Hexers are hardly the only ones who use them. The Hoodoo women use human testicles in one of their tricks."

"You're not making any more sense."

"And you're not living up to your reputation. You're more nervous than a witch in Salem."

"Yeah, well... what? Look, if there's no vet down here, I guess I'll get out of your hair. I've got a more pressing problem." It took forty minutes to get anywhere by car in D.C., so Everard figured he still had about half an hour before Bill Bill made it back. He moved toward the stairs, but the woman didn't get out of the way.

"The only Periphery veterinarian I know of works over in the Tysons Corner nook. Can't get there from here, though."

"There's no vet in Tysons Corner." Three floors of overpriced clothes and shoddy electronics, not to mention a food court that would burn the nostrils off a sewage plant worker, but definitely no vet clinic.

"The nook, not the mall," she said. "Either way, he's only open normal business hours. But if you need help with your other problem, there's a meeting starting right now."

Great, she either thought he needed group counseling or Alcoholics Anonymous. "No, it's not that kind of problem."

"Nonsense, it's everyone's civic duty to attend the town halls. Even emergency sessions like this one."

Okay, not an AA meeting. "I'm not real big on being a good citizen." He stepped closer, hoping she would get the hint to let him pass.

She didn't, oblivious as she riffled through her purse. "If that was true, you wouldn't be alive. Even someone like you."

"Who do you think I am?"

She clucked her tongue. "I knew you were eccentric, but at a certain point it's just rude, don't you think?"

"Sorry. Do you have a name?" Maybe being polite would get her to move.

"You really did forget it? Lucy."

"Pleasure. I'm Everard."

She reached out, realized she was holding what she'd removed from her purse, then extended her left hand.

Everard tucked the pistol in the back of his pants - subtly, he hoped - then shook her hand.

The offending object Lucy held was a popsicle-stick figuring of a man, hanged from a yarn noose long enough to hang around Lucy's neck, where she placed it. "Can't be too careful," she said.

"Whatever you say."

"Are you coming to the meeting? I could walk with you. Remind people I could still be part of influential circles, if I wanted to."

"Again, I'm only Everard. But sorry, I don't think I need that meeting."

Stomping footsteps preceded a grizzled military man running up (down?) the stairs, wearing fatigues different from any Everard had ever seen. Dots and lines of white and silver, in patterns over a black background like a street grid that was organized in some places and chaotic in others; tiny knobs and wires that may have been three dimensional or just sewn-on images, but the light and the curves of the clothes made it difficult to tell. He looked like he wanted to blend in with a computer motherboard.

The soldier nodded to Everard and Lucy, who stepped out of the way. "Sir. Ma'am."

He jogged alongside the cement structure and then around behind it.

"What did you say this place was?" Everard asked, cautiously following the soldier.

"The Mall nook."

"Some sort of Comicon thing going on?" He widened his path, trying to see around the end of the structure.

"Nothing like that tonight. Like I said, just the meeting between ink and the Burgesses."

Everard stopped. He yanked the flyer out of his pocket.

House of Burg-

"Who's that?"

"You're committed to this clueless farce, are you?" Lucy put her hands on her hips. "Ink is the same group they were last time anybody saw you. Only now they've got enough influence to rival the Burgesses."

"Who are the Burgesses? I think they-" Everard almost said are after me, but switched it to, "want to see me."

"They haven't changed since you were outside last, still acting like they run things. Honestly, I thought you kept up to date on the goings-ons."

Everard tucked the flyer away. These were his guys. Lucky he found this place. Wait, no. Bill Bill sent him here.

The old man was tied up in this. He'd sent Everard here on purpose.

And here Everard had been willing to give him half his paycheck to protect him. "Where can I find the Burgesses?" he said through gritted teeth.

"The emergency town hall," said Lucy. "Mr. President will be running it."

"I think I'll join you, then." Part of Everard knew approaching these guys head on wasn't the best idea. But they'd targeted him, sent people after him, violating the privacy he'd worked so hard to build. His stomach clenched as he thought of that woman's skin condition. Maybe Bill Bill had broke into his house, slipped something into his food to make him hallucinate.

Lucy pulled her bag back onto her shoulder and waddled with the weight of it.

Everard wanted a free hand to draw his pistol, so he quickly opened George's carrier and tossed in the paper bag and sandwich. He followed after Lucy, toward the glow, in the direction the stitched men had gone.

"Say," she said, "maybe you can do me a favor."

He had enough bizarre favors for one night. "I really can't."

"Nonsense, this'll help you, too. You've noticed these wretched booms, right?"

"Who hasn't?"

"The Burgesses keep pretending like no one has. But if they won't listen to us, maybe ink will."

"Why are they called 'ink?'"

"Because they're incorporated, I suppose."

She'd been saying Inc.

Lucy prattled on. "They'll listen to you. You haven't left your house in, what, 30 years? If you came out because of the booms, they'd have to listen. Maybe then we can get past the damned drama going on - pardon my language. The rumor is Mr. President says Inc and the CEO are behind the booms, while Inc is blaming Undone Duncan and his reskinned. Best thing about Inc standing up to the Burgesses? Now there's two groups hoping to win our favor by bestowing on us all sorts of nice gifts - food for the hungry, personal space heaters for the cold, the CFO even caught the Face Without a Name, to the pleasure of grieving parents everywhere. Mr. President is embarrassed his Regulars couldn't find the bastard—pardon my language—but now folks are walking around feeling safe again at night. Well, unless you accept the sad fact that our closets and basements are getting more restless. And of course, those cannon booms everyone's up in arms about."

Finally, something that made sense in her rambling. "Is that what the booms are? Cannons?"

"Oh, I haven't a clue. Sounds like it though, doesn't it?"

Lucy kept on about what different people thought the booms might be, dropping enough trippy names to make Everard suspect she was on drugs.

Maybe the Burgesses were drug dealers, although that didn't seem like Bill Bill's MO.

He followed the rambling woman, peering into the dark, but it only revealed the brick and cement structure to his left, and dirt to his right. Dirt with that stringy little white grass.

Midstride, he bent down to pluck a strand. George complained about the sudden movement.

Everard rolled the odd grass between his fingers. He suddenly recognized the plant. This wasn't grass at all. Well, it was. Just, it wasn't the above-the-ground, green part of the grass.

"They're roots," he said, interrupting Lucy's monologue.

"Of course, dear, what else would they be?"

"Roots don't grow up."

"Which is why you see them here, underneath."

"If we're underneath the Mall, the roots should be up there." He pointed at the eerie constellations.

"Didn't we use the same stairs? The Mall nook is beneath the National Mall. That way is up." She pointed at her feet and stomped, then smacked the cement structure. "Your standing next to the the Museum of American History. Its foundation, anyways."

"That makes less sense than buying George's balls."

"And yet both are happening," she walked around the corner of the foundation. "Please, save the ignorant act. I won't give away your secret, but just because you stay cooped up inside doesn't mean people have forgotten what you look like."

Everard prepared the perfect response, a clever retort that both proved how wrong Lucy was and called her intelligence into question, but then he followed her around the corner and it promptly left his mind.

Someone had blended a cavern, a shopping mall, and a street bazaar, and then invited a thousand movie extras.

Everard leaned on the cement to steady himself. He didn't see any other huge structures like this one, but smaller buildings and stalls stretched as far as he could see. Which, admittedly, wasn't far. Lampposts - topped with blurry glass cases that glowed a shifting green - illuminated everything well enough, but the chaotic density of the buildings and people only revealed the outskirts of the world.

A man wearing a jacket covered in feathers yelled over a shop counter at teenage identical twin boys. A typical soccer mom made her way through the crowd, pushing a stroller that contained a writhing, furry pile of what looked like bats. People made way for three men wearing trenchcoats and fedoras, and carrying violin cases. Other oddities populated the crowd as well: a woman wearing nothing but a loincloth (who caused the soccer mom to shield her impressionable bats' eyes), a college aged kid with a Snidely Whiplash mustache wearing what looked like an 1800's train conductor's uniform, an elderly man in knee-length britches and a white powdered wig escorting a woman in a hoop skirt who carried a parasol, a gang of kids throwing tiny firecrackers and laughing at the people who jumped.

"Low turnout," said Lucy. "Usually have more shoppers on Thursdays."

A man on stilts stepped carefully among the costumed menagerie, to a lamppost with a fading light. On his back he wore a box wrapped in canvas, green light leaking through. Balancing expertly above the heads of the crowd, he reached behind his back to procure a spider the size of his fist. The spider emanated a swampish glow, legs waving. The lamplighter removed a dull spider from the lamp, and replaced it with the fresh one. The glass on the lamps wasn't blurry, but full of spiderwebs.

"Is this some kind of festival?" he asked. He'd seen LARPers in the park, dressed as knights and wizards and elves, pretending to kill each other with swords and fake magic. Maybe this was some kind of underground, LARPer Comicon.

Lucy stopped, politely waiting for Everard to gain his composure. "No, Independence Day was several weeks ago, and the Mormons did their Pioneer Parade last Wednesday, but there's no festivals today, just folks doing their shopping. Or were you thinking of the Folkmeister Music Festival? That's not until the third. My sister will be playing 'Lovers of the Great Recession' on her bladder fiddle. Took me weeks to find a proper cymbal that would fit atop it and harmonize with her bent."

Everard translated her rambling. No, it's not a festival. "Then why are all these people down here?" He'd never heard of any kind of farmer's market under the Mall. He'd never heard of anything down here, especially nothing upside-down. Those weren't really roots. They couldn't be.

"Have you been cooped up inside so long you've gone daffy? I should say it doesn't matter who you are - everyone needs some fresh air now and then." Lucy counted on her fingers. "It's been about eight years since the Mall really picked up in business. The first brick-and-mortar shop that went up infuriated the Burgesses - well, Mr President anyways - but after that there was no stopping it. We all come here to listen to those who think they're in charge, might as well pick up the essentials while we're at it."

"Who is 'we'?" Everard waved his open hand, indicating the crowd.

"All the Periphery denizens. Who else would I be talking about?"

"What's the Periphery?"

Lucy's jaw went stiff. "You're not trying to reorient yourself. You're just mocking me."

"I'm not!" insisted Everard. "I don't know who these people are. I've never been here before!"

"I'm not ignorant to the cruel tricks you play." Lucy yanked her bag back onto her shoulder. "I've had enough. Go find someone else to humiliate."

Lucy walked into the crowd.

"Wait!" called Everard, picking up George and hurrying after her.

His boots schlocked in mud, body odor mixed with cooking spices assaulted his nostrils, people jostled him to and fro. Everyone packed in tighter than he'd thought. He peered around, taller than most, but not all. A flash of red dress deeper into the crowd. He followed.

"Pardon me young man," said a frail elderly woman, inching through the crowd with a walker, "could you spare a dollar?"

She wore Ray Ban sunglasses below wispy white hair and above wrinkled, leathery cheeks.

"Sorry, I don't carry cash," said Everard.

The woman removed her sunglasses, left the walker, and walked away, saying to an appeared accomplice, "I told you he wouldn't go for it."

At least, Everard had thought he'd seen white hair and wrinkled skin. Now it was a girl his age.

He tried to get a better look, and bumped into someone.

"Excuse you," spat a middle-aged woman adorned like a teen pop star. Her younger, similarly dressed entourage smacked their lips and sneered.

"So sorry," he pushed on, hoping he could still catch up to Lucy.

He stopped. Lucy already told him where he could find the Burgesses - in the square with Inc.

He didn't need Lucy's help any more than he needed anyone else's.

Except to ask for directions.

A four-hundred pound man in a "Han Shot First" t-shirt waddled by, licking an ice cream cone.

"Hey, could you tell me where the square is?"

The overweight man lumbered to a stop. Chocolate ice cream dripped on his shirt. He looked Everard up and down, probably trying to decide if he recognized him. With a stubby finger, he pointed in the direction Lucy had disappeared.

"Thanks."

See, that was exactly the sort of person you'd expect to see at this sort of ComicCon, renaissance fair type of event. "This isn't as weird as it seems," he told George. "Don't worry."

The crowd thinned slightly as Everard continued. He still had to maneuver around people, but now he had a better view of everything. There were more buildings and fewer stalls. The stalls that remained displayed shinier wares, organized more neatly.

A boy shouted next to a stack of newspapers. "Inc Takes Down the Face With No Name! Shadows still dangerous! Read about it here, or download our free app!"

Next to the newspapers was an unmanned stand with a simple sign reading, "Attention Watchers: Protect your country. Competitive salaries. Take a form." The box for the forms contained instead ash and burnt paper.

Neon words blinked above the entrance to a brick building, "Batteries Recharged."

A surprisingly solid-looking shop built from welded-together scrap, with a sign made from bolts drilled into sheet metal, offered "Unmachining."

Questions brewed in Everard's mind. How much would building all this cost? Why had he never seen it advertised? What organization would lay down the cash to build all this, and then not even publicize it?

He had enough Facebook friends into anime and superheroes and Harry Potter that he figured at least one of them would have posted something about this... event. What was it even called? You'd think there'd be a big welcoming banner.

Everard walked too close to one of the stalls.

"Good evening, sir!" called a bearded man wearing a heavy apron. "You look like a man who enjoys proper cuisine."

His counter displayed some kind of thumb-sized rubber socks, like condoms for unfortunately endowed men.

"Just slip one of my patented Taste Shields over your tongue," he demonstrated, "and eben da driest hamburger will taste dibine!"

"Uh, no thanks," said Everard, not slowing.

"They'll last foreber!" he removed the patented Taste Shield. "Blessed only by the most experienced hagiomagi."

Everard kept on, trying to figure out what a hagiomagi was. "Hagio" had something to do with religion, but that's all he knew.

He found his attention drawn to the spaces between the haphazardly placed buildings. The spider lamps illuminated a long stretch of the cavern, but the short alleyways quickly fell into darkness. How far back did the cavern go? The edges of the shadow flickered, despite the emerald spiders' glow.

A recorded female voice interrupted, emanating from some invisible speaker, "This is a public service announcement. Remember to report any uncleaned benting. Responsible benters make a livable reality."

Everard kept on, and found himself standing over the Reflecting Pool. Or rather, under it. He looked down into the water, and the night sky looked back. Refracted starlight surrounded a shimmering moon, all framing the silhouette of the Washington Monument.

He suddenly felt lightheaded. That looked real. Crazy what technology could do. It really looked like he was walking around underneath the National Mall, with his feet stuck to the bottom of the ground. He sat down next to the water, George by his side.

"Where did Bill Bill send us?"

He picked up a pebble and dropped it into the water, expecting it to land on a submerged screen.

Instead, it plopped through the water, disappearing as it fell up into the sky.

So this was a really deep pool, with the image of the monument projectd onto the bottom. He rolled up his sleeve and reached into the water.

It warmed his skin, like it was only a few feet of water that had been basking in the August sun all day, not like it was a deep, underground pool.

If the image was a projection, he should see it on his arm; but his arm blocked the view.

"Hey," an authoritative voice rose above the buzz of the crowd. "Stop that."

Everard ignored it. He reached deeper, feeling for a screen, and his fingers broke the surface below. He felt humid wind on his hand, even while he looked at his sleeve submerged in water. He jerked his arm out.

"What are you doing?" An older voice, two men behind him.

He didn't care. He scrambled for an explanation to a pool without a top or bottom, water suspended in midair, between the surface and this inverted marketplace, if Lucy was right.

Still ignoring the approaching men, Everard stomped on the ground. Could he break through? Would he just fall into the sky?

A gentle, firm hand gripped his shoulder. "Easy there."

Everard grabbed the wrist and yanked the man past him, sticking out his leg.

Panic bursting through his body now, Everard turned to run.

And found himself staring down the barrel of a bayoneted rifle, the point millimeters from his chin.

"Back up!" it's owner yelled, a young kid with a tricornered hat.

"Get that out of my face," growled Everard.

He took in what was happening. This wasn't a rifle, it was a musket. And behind it was a bulky teenager decked out like a Revolutionary War reenactor. He wore a blue coat with red lapels, over white pants and boots. Blond hair peeked out from under his hat.

The man he tripped was older - with gray hair in a ponytail - but dressed the same. He brushed off his muddy white pants and picked up his musket.

"What the hell are you?" Everard thought out loud.

"Nick," said the older soldier, "lower the gun. He's harmless."

Everard considered punching that calm old face just to show how harmless he was.

"He attacked you," said Nick.

The point of the bayonet pressed into Everard's chin. He didn't flinch.

"He panicked. Look at him. Doesn't have a clue where he is." He pushed Nick's musket down by the barrel, then stuck out a hand to Everard. "I'm General Timothy Logan of the Continental Regulars. This is my son, Private Nick Logan."

Everard ignored the offered handshake.

"Have you been drinking?" Timothy sounded like a cop. Maybe these guys were the security down here.

"No."

"Do you need an escort back out of the nook?"

"Nook?"

"This part of the Periphery," said Nick. "You were right, he doesn't know where he is. How'd he get down here, then?"

Timothy put his musket's butt on the ground to lean on the barrel. "How did you end up down here? You shouldn't have been able to find the stairs without looking for them."

"Unless he came through another nook," said Nick.

"That doesn't seem likely." Timothy scratched the gray stubble on his cheek. "You forget how to talk, son?"

Everard shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "Yes, I came up the stairs. Down the stairs. I don't know, it was weird."

Nick laughed, the sound of a high school bully. "That's the staircase."

"How'd you find it?" asked Timothy.

"Uh, business card with an address. I was looking for something else."

"Who gave it to you?"

"My neighbor."

"Who's your neighbor?"

Everard's frustration with authority pushed away his disorientation. "What's it to you?"

"Just a question," said Timothy.

"Why'd you come down here?" asked Nick.

"I took a wrong turn. Is that a crime?"

"No," said Timothy.

"But using unauthorized doorways is," said Nick. "Why were you trying to pass through the Reflecting Pool? That's for the view only."

"Be quiet for a second," said Timothy. "First of all, that's not illegal, it's discouraged. Don't suggest there's written laws you're enforcing. Secondly," he turned to Everard, "who are you, and why are you down here? I think we started off on the wrong foot, but we're here to help."

Everard picked up George's carrier. "I told you. Wrong turn. But I'm headed back now. Don't worry about it."

Maybe if he got out of here for a few minutes, he could clear his head and figure out what was going on.

"Be careful," said Timothy. "The Face Without a Name is off the street, but the increased frequency of bumps is real."

Everard kept walking.

"And there's speculation Undone Duncan has something planned. The Perforated Woman's been a lot more active."

Everard stopped.

"Oh, uh, but we're on the lookout for her. Shouldn't be long before we catch her."

Everard turned around. George shifted in his carrier. "Who?"

"The Perforated Woman. Undone Duncan's lackey. The brains behind his more... bizarre experiments."

"Dark hair? Holes in her skin that tend to wander?" Everard wiggled his fingers over his face.

"You've seen her? Where?"

"In an office complex off North Capitol. Who is she?"

"She's dangerous as hell, that's who she is. You see her, you run the other way."

"Gotcha." Everard didn't want to hear any more. It wasn't something Bill Bill had slipped him. That woman really had holes swarming around her skin. He scratched at his cheek.

"Now hold on, son. If she's set her sights on you, you've got a tough time on your hands."

"I'll be fine," said Everard. He had to get away from this insanity. Get back to his truck, and start driving.

"Call us if you see her again."

"I don't have your number."

Nick gave him a look like he was an idiot. "It's 911."

"Right." Fighting panic, Everard hurried back towards the impossible iron staircase.

Chapter Five

Everard pushed through the same bizarre crowd as he headed back, but now they felt more aggressive. He kept his head down.

Those Revolutionary War freaks knew about the woman who'd attacked him. That meant she was part of whatever the hell the Periphery was. She could be down here.

He moved toward the center of the street, away from the shadows in the alleyways.

If he could get back to the staircase, he could get away. Empty his bank accounts and cut town. These guys probably knew about Abby, so he'd have to convince her to disappear for a little while, too. If she would listen to him after seeing all those messages from Liz.

Oh shit, what if these freaks knew about Liz? She couldn't exactly cut town. And how could he run off without making sure she was safe?

A vendor hawked his wares with angry shouts, spittle flying out with the sales pitch. His voice snaked through the crowd, right by one ear - "divine which nutrients your body is craving" - and then the other - "and which toxins it desperately needs to flush" - then on to the next prospective customer. Everard didn't bother to look for a hovering speaker this time.

If it was just some organized crime assholes after him, he could deal with that. Pay them off, whatever. But he couldn't deal with this. A bunch of freaky shit he didn't ever want to see again.

A woman with frazzled dark hair stood facing away from him. Everard's breath caught and he froze.

George meowed, shifting his weight in the carrier.

The woman turned around. It wasn't her.

A bedraggled young mother pushed a stroller with one hand and yanked along a toddler with another. The little boy glided along the ground like he was wearing those shoes with wheels in the heel, except what kind of wheels could glide so easily over mud?

The boy swung around toward Everard. He jumped back. George thumped against the side of the cage.

The lamplighter on stilts still made his rounds, striding to each dull lamppost. He passed over Everard, and a fist-sized spider dropped onto his shoulder. Everard jerked away, knocking the glowing arachnid off his shirt. The lamplighter deftly reached down and snatched it out of the air. "Don't let him bite you," he said with a Boston accent. "Poison control is out of town."

Everard's heart pounded, panic pushing out with each pulse, trying to take over. "Stay calm," he whispered to himself. He only needed to get up the stairs.

A group of teenagers and young twenty-somethings moved surreptitiously through the crowd, eyes down, faces shadowed by hooded sweatshirts. Everard moved to the side of the street, not wanting to get involved in whatever this was. Others noticed the teenagers, and worried murmurs passed through the crowd, which thinned out around him. Everard continued past the commotion.

Something flashed bright behind him, illuminating the street ahead. He didn't bother turning to look. People screamed, but out of surprise, not fear or pain. A sixties protest song burst across the market, followed by a loud recording of dozens of voices chanting: "Free Ryker! Fuck the NSA!"

One of the hooded youth sprinted past Everard, cutting around a corner.

Everard picked up the pace, not wanting to get involved, then slowed down, not wanting anyone to think he was involved.

He spotted the museum foundation ahead. "Another hundred feet," he assured George.

They sidestepped a man having a conversation with a parrot who was doing more than just parroting; it was responding to questions and giving it's opinions. The parrot paused midsentence to stare at Everard, feathers ruffling. "You shouldn't be here," it squawked.

Everard picked up the pace. "You going to start talking, too?" He lifted the carrier to look through the grated door. "Why don't you tell me what Bill Bill wants with me?"

George stared passively back.

Everard noticed people staring, but kept on. "Talk already! What's going on?"

One woman stepped towards him. A blur of movement on her cheek.

Everard swallowed air and scrambled away. He glanced back to see her waving him off.

"Drunk asshole," she called.

The movement was probably just a shadow, but he couldn't be too careful until he got the hell out of Dodge.

If yelling at George hadn't grabbed the crowd's attention, that freakout did. He lowered his head and hurried on.

He rounded the corner around the cement foundation to see the wrought iron staircase ahead.

Here, away from the spider-lamps, the phosphorescent constellations were visible again. Purple and blue stars glowed above. Or below. He wanted to believe it was something painted on a high ceiling, but he knew it was probably some glowing fungus on the floor of a cavern.

He avoided looking at the edges of the light. Something moved in the darkness, and he wasn't interested in discovering what.

He wondered if he dug into the ground right here, would he break through to the green lawn of the Mall? He doubted it. Six inches of dirt couldn't hold up museums and monuments. Something weirder was going, and millions of people up there had no idea.

He approached the staircase. His heart roared in his chest. The reality he knew was just a few feet away.

A young woman blocked the stairs, a baby on her hip, struggling to fold up a stroller with one hand. "I'm sorry, but you could help me?"

Everard didn't want to spend another second down here, but her stroller was in the way, and he couldn't just push past it. He took a deep breath.

"Sure." He set down George's carrier to take the stroller. He fumbled with it until it clicked into position.

"Oh, thank you," she said, then looked at him, wide-eyed. "I know you. You're..."

"Nope," said Everard. "I'm not."

"But you look just-"

"No," he said, frustrated. "I don't." He felt a slight tinge in his gut, like when the Perforated Woman had dropped her weapon. He got a sense of thick, heavy atmosphere pressing down around him, and then his mind muscled through it.

"I guess you don't." She tilted her head. "Must be the cat."

"People keep saying that. Doesn't anyone else own cats around here?"

"They don't usually carry them around."

That was fair.

"Although I never saw him use a cage. Anyways, thanks for your help." She took the folded up stroller back, then went down the stairs.

Everard started to follow, relief coursing through him, then heard someone say: "coward."

Fury flashed in his gut. There was a difference between running away because you were afraid, and leaving when you were in over your head. He looked around, ready to give someone a piece of his mind.

An elderly couple walked toward the stairs, but they were too far away to have said it.

He lifted the carrier. "Was that you?" he asked George.

"I'm not a coward," whined another voice behind Everard.

Two hooded figures stood in the shadow of the cement foundation. The protesters. They must have thought Everard was already gone, and they were alone.

"Why didn't you help us? Don't you care about Ryker?"

"You didn't need me. And what if the NSA grabbed us?"

Everard didn't know who they were talking about, but he found himself siding with the accused. If someone else had things under control, why get involved? Unless you were the only one who could. Regardless, he hated cowardice. If you let other people bully you away from what you wanted, you'd live a sad, pathetic life.

"Shut up. We'll see what Eddie says about you bailing on us. And I can't imagine what Ryker will say once we get her out."

The teenagers slinked out of the shadows, toward the stairs, then froze when they saw Everard still standing there.

"For what it's worth," Everard said, "I'm not whoever I look like."

They lowered their heads and brushed by him down the stairs.

Everard stood with one hand on the iron railing, thinking.

Coward.

It wasn't cowardice. It was being smart.

He didn't sign up to get involved with this supernatural shit.

But he'd told Bill Bill about Abby. And if they'd tapped his phone then they knew about Liz. If he ran away, the Burgesses would doubtless go after them.

He squeezed the cold railing.

He hadn't felt this unsettled since he walked into Liz's hospital room, fifteen years ago. The day he disappeared from the foster care system.

No more abusive, high school dropout parents. No more well-meaning, sterile foster parents. No more cheery social worker, fighting harder to hold on to enthusiasm than to actually do his job well.

Fourteen-year-old Everard had a best friend—or maybe a girlfriend, depending on how you looked at it—named Liz. Liz had a stutter, so she got bullied by a senior with cigarette burns on her arms who took out her frustrations in the weight room and on freshmen. Everard kept Liz safe. But then Mr. Social Worker said it was time to go stay with another family, and maybe this time try to see them as his family, not as temporary roommates. Everard explained that he had to protect Liz, but Mr. Social Worker didn't listen, so Everard moved and two days later Cigarette Burns shoved Liz in the locker room, and Liz's head connected with a blue Master Lock combination dial, which caused a large amount of external and internal bleeding, and suddenly ten years of cognitive development disappeared.

When Everard heard, he stole his new foster parents' keys and drove to the hospital. Liz was thrilled to see him, but it was the look of a toddler excited about a plate of cookies. He left without saying a word, ignoring the wordless shouts and sobs behind him. Mr. Social Worker had never shared his personal address, so Everard drove to the foster care office, threw a brick through the front window, then lit a fire in a trashcan which evidently jumped to a curtain and then the rest of the building.

"Coward!" he'd screamed, more at himself than anyone else.

If Everard had stood firm, if he'd told Mr. Social Worker to shove it, then Liz would be home working on geometry homework, not sitting in a hospital bed, wondering why everyone looked so sad, and looking forward to tomorrow's Looney Toons marathon.

It was years before he worked up the courage to find Liz and rekindle their friendship, this time as a sort of older brother.

He should never have accepted Mr. Social Worker's authority. He shouldn't have accepted that the only option was obeying.

There was always another option.

Everard had run. He couldn't keep the car or they'd find him, so he pushed it off a bridge into the James River. When the cops pulled it up, they assumed he was dead, a mistake he never bothered correcting. Instead, he started calling himself Everard, and learned to work the system when you weren't technically a part of it. He could walk away any given day, and no one would know who he was.

Except now someone did, and that someone didn't follow the same rules of reality as everyone else.

Everard leaned against the iron post.

He wanted to go home and watch baseball, enjoy his time off. That wasn't an option.

He could cut town. It wouldn't be hard to restart his business anywhere he went. New York had a certain elitist appeal, attracting the sort of people eager to pay for high-end finish carpentry.

Coward.

If these Burgesses had been watching his house, they probably knew about Abby. Maybe even knew about Liz. What would Abby do against the Perforated Woman when she came questioning? He didn't want to imagine Liz panicked and shrieking at the two-tongued man.

Cutting town wasn't an option.

But if he didn't get away, the Burgesses could tip off his existence to the authorities, and bring his whole life crumbling down.

He stared down the staircase, to the street above. This underground pocket of D.C.—this nook, as Lucy had called it—loomed around him like an expectant audience, holding its breath in anticipation.

There was always another option.

The Burgesses wanted something from him. So Everard would have to convince them that they didn't.

He turned around, patted the Ruger under his waistband. He could deal with freaks. And he could deal with whoever the Burgesses were. He'd keep his life, and keep Abby and Liz out of it.

When he thought about it, the phosphorescent glow from above gave the white, stringy grass a pleasant color.

That town meeting was probably still going on. Lucy said the Burgesses would be there. He'd drop in, make a scene, force them to tell him what they wanted. Lucy made them sound like some kind of embattled political authority in this freakshow, so he was willing to gamble they'd hate any kind of negative attention worse than he did.

Everard headed back toward the marketplace, his planning drowning out his fear.

Chapter Six

INTERLUDE

Three hundred miles outside the city, both to the northeast and southwest, two ancients feel a lure.

It's an insulting wrongness that draws them, a pulsating, slowing heartbeat, only reversed, accelerating into a maddening boom boom boom. To each, the thrumming sounds like the other, a counterfeit heartbeat like a duck call or doe urine. For centuries, they have existed, hunted, haunted, ignoring the other, leaving a buffer, a no-man's-land only populated by the new, soft prey. But now, each hears a threat from the other, and neither will permit such an offense. They move towards the boom, towards their imagined challenger.

One comes from the northeast, this divine error of evolution, hunter of the lost, eater of hands, long ago genocidal slaughterer of its peers. It is bats' wings and Satan's hooves propelling a thousand pounds of primeval force. It is lanky arms and a mangy tail. Feasting on flesh and reveling in fear, it hunts with blurred speed and behemoth strength. Those poor victims who become its meals see only a flash of ebony wings or the dull yellow of sharp fangs, if they see anything before it feeds. The breath of its snout has fogged the windows of countless cowering children, the razor edge of its antlers has rent them from their parents. It is terror, it is alpha.

It leaves its evening of stalking, one moment a silhouette against the trees, then a wind across the grass and a silent intruder in a home locked up tight.

Soaring past the stiff winged metal creations of the new, soft prey, it hears the slow pulsing, senses the encroachment on neutral territory that is really a farce. It is the apex predator of this reality, and it will not be intimidated, not even by that immigrant from elsewhere, that cowardly confusing hunter that doesn't belong, that twists earth and prey until nothing belongs.

The apex leaps into the sky, spreads its wings.

South.

Southwest of the city, another hears, it that doesn't belong, the oft-glimpsed mourning god, runt outcast of its species and mourning ruler of the blue hills. Fled from a distant corner of ethereal, incomprehensible existence to this new corner of coal veins and conifers, of poverty and pride. There it is king, as man is king of the insects: ignorant, uninterested until his fancy strikes.

Banished from its plane, it mourns in a magnitude and substance beyond man's primal emotions, just as man's sorrow is incomprehensible to his own insect subjects.

This earth has become its refuge, but it offends sanity, ignoring faith and physics.

It howls and moves from treetop to nightmare, from mirror to mineshaft, from winged, antennaed figure glimpsed in foglights, to garbled voice of the asemic divine, drifting up from the rusty drain.

Tonight it is warning a woman lonely on meth and Jesus, speaking to her from the trusses over the river called Gauley, comparing her sorrows to its own, but she hears only the rip between breaths, sees only compound eyes and powdery wings that fill the night sky to block out hope and stars.

Over her screams, it hears the offensive pulse, the threats from the hubristic bully of this weak reality. In the booms, it senses the other moving south to claim what is not its own. It must counter, refuse to allow the lesser being larger territory. That primitive beast would only slaughter and devour these beings, before they ever have a chance to understand true sadness.

It abandons the woman to contemplate loss, to spend her few remaining days in madness.

High above, a migrating V of mallards sees the predator yank itself out of reality. They grrt panic; an unseen hunter is not hungry long.

But their fear subsides as it moves north, flying, running, swimming toward its destination, then pulling the pocket of existence that holds its destination toward itself. It swings from treetop to starlight, swoops through a cellar door to glitch into a cement and rebar wall, then slips along a busy highway. It takes the most direct path available, a route seen only by its kind, although its kind has long since abandoned this corner and this king. Those unfortunate, open-minded ones who see its journey catch only a glimpse, a flash, a shadow, and feel something like loneliness, if that could describe the weight of being crushed by a cold, dead star.

The two hunters move to converge, each perceiving the other as aggressor, one flying lightning quick, one traveling in a way only comprehensible to itself, both toward the source of the signal: the city of wealth and waste, of fear and promises, of tradition and rebellion.

Chapter Seven

He still got a few odd looks as he retraced his steps. He tried to ignore all the impossible shit that filled the market. As he passed the reflecting pool again, the crowd grew, shuffling towards the square. The buildings thinned out. A crew of street performers entertained passers-by with a melody of fife and synthesizer. Before them, a girl danced with jerking, then flowing movements. She leapt into the air and lingered there a second longer than gravity should have allowed.

Further on, a voice like a drill instructor turned auctioneer rose above the drone of the crowd. "You filthy botflies think they're paying you well enough here? You'll make five times your current salary overseas right now!"

Everard located the voice. A goateed man in desert fatigues stood on a table, luring people to military men with clipboards and informational brochures.

"And you'll be doing good while you're at it. Doesn't matter what your bent is. Last week I wrote checks to a lunamancer, a bale shem, and a dozen other benters on my crew. Hell, my best sharpshooter is an altruist. If you've got guts, I'll put you to work. You better believe the United States Armed Forces pays a pretty penny for our services."

A few college-aged kids heckled the military recruiters as they passed.

Another structure came into view, the foundation to the Lincoln Memorial, somehow supporting the above building despite the openness around it here.

The ground dipped down into an ampitheater, curved seating facing a stage that backed up to an inverted stone and cement foundation.

People filled most of the stone benches already, but more pushed in. Everard joined them, passing an LED sign that read "Tonight: Public Meeting. Tomorrow: Wicked."

Two groups of men argued on stage. One of them had to be the Burgesses.

Everard tried to find an empty seat, but instead found himself face to face with a perturbed puppet.

"I thought you didn't leave your house," said the puppet. "That's why you turned down Undone Duncan's gracious offer."

Everard examined the masked man who he'd first taken to be a puppet. A fabric mask clung tightly to his face, mimicking the color skin. It was lined with stitches, like the skin of the men who'd chased him down here. He looked like one of the regular people on The Muppet Show had melded with one of the Muppets.

Around them, people squeezed against each other for seats, politely shoving aside anyone in their way. They all gave the puppet-man a wide berth.

The men argued on the amphitheater stage, and Everard thought he heard them mention the Burgesses, but the stranger in his face demanded his attention.

"Which is it?" The puppet-man sounded like he was chewing on cotton balls. "Do you leave your house or not?"

Everard wanted to answer. The thing was, the puppet-man's mask was extremely distracting. It was pulled snug to his face, hugging every contour and crease, the material made up of thousands of minuscule, curled fibers. It looked a lot like carpet.

"Stop staring at me, freak," said Puppet-man.

The absurdity that Everard was the freak helped him find his voice. "I leave my house all the time. I'm not your guy."

The toughness he meant to exude dissipated as someone bumped him and knocked him off balance.

The puppet-man laughed. "Good thing you always land on your feet, huh?"

"Really," said Everard, pushing past him, "go bother someone else."

A rough hand grabbed his forearm, synthetic fiber scratching his skin. Puppet-man wore gloves woven from the same fabric as his mask, stretched back under his shirtsleeves. "The boss said to bring you in gentle, so that's what I'll try to do."

Everard jerked his arm.

Carrying lumber and swinging a hammer all day left Everard stronger than your average D.C. resident. Plus, this wasn't a bodybuilder strong, where he could mainly apply his strength in stiff, slow-twitch, weightroom motions. He was country-strong, as he'd heard Bill Bill call it once. His muscles had developed to be used.

Which made it all the more surprising when Puppet-man's grip didn't budge.

"You're gonna let me be gentle, aren't you?" Puppet-man's smile showed in his eyes. The carpet-mask pulled back to reveal a glimpse of muscle and sinew between his eye and temple.

Everard jerked away again, this time involuntarily. The guy had open wounds under the mask. He gave Puppet-man a more thorough look. The fabric of the mask extended down his neck, and the gloves reached up his forearms out of sight. Had he wrapped his whole body in fabric, like those burn victims in cheap movies? Was it all open wounds? Everard imagined the scratchy fibers holding in his own insides.

George let out a slow rowl.

"Do what I say," said Puppet-man, "and everything will be just fine."

Belligerence drowned out Everard's revulsion. "Let go of my arm." Burn victim or not, he didn't like people trying to force him to do anything.

A few heads turned. This conflict happening on the steps was even more interesting than the argument on stage. Those closest tried to scoot away from the stairs.

Puppet-man didn't like the attention. "Keep it quiet if you want to get to Undone Duncan in one piece."

"I don't take orders from freaks," said Everard, louder. But that name, Undone Duncan. That father/son Revolutionary War dressup duo had said the Perforated Woman worked for him.

A goth kid with spiked hair yelled, "fuck that carpet-face up."

Uncomfortable murmurs as people edged away from the goth kid. The fear Everard saw in their hesitance pushed back into his own mind.

Everard hated being afraid.

He jerked away again, throwing everything into it, then, as the "carpet-face" steeled himself against the pull, Everard kicked him in the gut, getting out an "oomph" and toppling him backwards down the steps.

The carpeted hand kept its grip on Everard's wrist, Everard kept his grip on George's carrier, and all three went tumbling down the amphitheater stairs, knocking others down along with them.

Stone steps smashed into his shoulder, then his thigh, then Everard managed to keep the carpet-face between himself and the unforgiving ground.

They reached the bottom, where Everard rolled off his moaning attacker. He checked George, who had landed on his feet, despite being in a cage. He rubbed his arm and then realized that everyone was silent, and everyone was staring.

Everard finally had the attention of the Burgesses.

A man and a women dressed like Revolutionary War reenactors stood on one side of the stage. The one in front looked like he was imitating paintings of George Washington, with a white wig on his head and his left arm resting in the small of his back. A woman dressed similarly but with a brown wig stepped between him and Everard, just in case the guy that had toppled down stone stairs decided to hop to his feet and attack.

Everard groaned and crawled to his knees. The others who they'd taken with them on their fall slipped back into the crowd, not wanting to be the center of attention.

The carpet-face limped toward the shadows to the side of the stage.

"Mr. President," said the brown-wigged woman, addressing the George Washington wannabe.

So this was his guy. Mr. President gave off a frail old man vibe, but then again so did Marlon Brando in the Godfather. His wrinkled face was clean shaven, and his pale eyebrows said that his real hair was as white as his wig. He raised a bony finger to speak.

"Should I dispatch the Regulars?" asked the woman.

No, thought Everard. He didn't like dealing with cops, and he didn't want to deal with fake cops. That feeling again, of pushing through a fog so dense it weighed him down.

Mr. President jerked his head toward Everard, as if he had yelled something offensive.

An annoyingly charming voice interrupted. "This is how your Burgesses respond to criminals." One of the men in suits.

Two of them stood on the stage. One looked to be in his fifties, slick silver hair, an angular chin, and a glare that had probably fired hundreds of employees.

The other was younger. Black hair, a gray sharkskin suit with slimmer tailoring, and the look of a backstabbing corporate ladder climber. He wore gaudy, ruby-studded cuff links. A high shirt collar only partially hid a jagged scar around the side of his neck.

It was the older suit who'd spoken. "One of Undone Duncan's reskinned interrupts our meeting, and the Burgesses are simply going to watch him go."

"It's not illegal to trip down the stairs," said Mr. President.

"So the carpet-faces aren't criminals?" The suit turned to address the audience. "Did you all hear that? How can you rely on these old men to protect you when they won't call a spade a spade?"

The crowd murmured. Mr. President spoke. "The CEO has a different definition of protection than I do, it seems. We protect your rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness by dealing with threats as they arise. The CEO would punish men because of rumors."

The CEO spoke again. "Undone Duncan's atrocities are rumors? Typical response from a spineless leader."

Everard stood, blinking to clear his head. Did everyone have weird titles around here? The CEO and the ladder climber must have been from Inc. That's who Lucy said the Burgesses would be debating.

Mr. President cleared his throat. "We called this special session to address the growing concerns-"

"You're not even taking questions," interrupted the CEO.

"We'll take questions at the end. And at the regular town hall on the first Thursday of next month."

"This is your leader," said the CEO, "Showing how deeply he cares for you."

What made even less sense, was that the Burgesses were talking like Undone Duncan wasn't on their side. If the Perforated Woman worked for Undone Duncan, and the wanted flyer was from the Burgesses, didn't that mean the Burgesses had sent Undone Duncan after him? Or maybe it was more complicated than that.

The brown-wigged Burgess interjected, her speech stilted, like she was still getting the hang of talking like it was 1776. "We don't lead. We protect."

"You imprison people you call criminals," said the CEO.

"They are criminals," said the woman.

The crowd murmured agreement.

"You've forced the people into relying on you." Anger tinted the CEO's voice.

"By protecting this city from threats?" spat Mr. President. "We never asked to lead. You should fear those who covet power, like the CEO." He shot an accusing look at the suits.

"Then step down." The CEO showed his palms like a politician practiced in disarming listeners through body language. "Call off your Regulars. Make the Minutemen stand down, too, if they'll listen to you."

Disapproval moved through the crowd at that last comment. Everard didn't know who the Minutemen were, but the guys in suits didn't like them, and the crowd did. Also, they apparently didn't listen to the Burgesses. Everard wanted to meet these guys.

But first, Everard wanted to get out of the spotlight. His plan to publicly confront them had to change. He needed some one-on-one time with Mr. President. He'd negotiated with plenty of contractors who were long past recommended retirement age. They were always defensive about their capabilities, so you couldn't let them think for a second you were questioning their authority. If Everard wanted to keep this civil, he had to avoid challenging Mr. President in front of people.

Keeping a large distance between himself and the moaning carpet-face, Everard crept to a bench in the front. A red-bearded man made room for him and George. Everard ignored the tiny red snake swimming through the bushy red beard.

"Thanks," whispered Everard.

"If Undone Duncan hates you," he responded, "you're all right with me."

"Not so loud," hissed the woman at his side.

"That carpet-face isn't listening."

Everard rubbed his shoulder. That fall was going to leave a bruise.

"If you're just going to stand there with your mouth agape," said the CEO, "then our CFO will handle the problem. Again. Bowman."

He motioned to the younger suit with the ruby cufflinks, who had stood quietly like an obedient dog throughout the argument.

Moving lightly for wearing such a form-fitting suit, CFO Bowman jumped off the stage and headed for the carpet-face. He pulled a hundred dollar bill and a glinting silver lighter from inside his suit jacket, and flicked the lighter to burn the bill. A black flame engulfed the cash, swallowing more than burning.

Everard flinched. A hundred bucks was a big step toward a new nailgun.

The carpet-face stumbled to his feet. The suit flicked his arm forward like he was shaking water off a rain jacket, and a shimmer in the air as wide as a freight train knocked the thug back down.

Everard gripped the bench's edge and George's carrier. The brazen display of the supernatural unsettled him, reminded him of the Perforated Woman's roving swarm of holes. The quicker he could deal with Mr. President's bounty and get out of here, the better.

Mr. President interrupted. "And I suppose you'll take him to a secure location?"

"That's right," said the CEO. "To keep the people safe. Because we're willing to help share your burden."

"No trial, no right to counsel?"

"This reskinned - this carpet-face - marked himself a murderer when he let the Perforated Woman replace his skin. If you won't do your job, then we'll remove him ourselves."

Everard leaned to the red bearded guy next to him. "What's that about the Perforated Woman and replacing skin?"

"Let someone accuse him, then." Mr. President addressed the crowd. "Who here has witnessed this man commit murder? Who will accuse him?"

Murmurs of fear spread through the people.

A woman stood to speak. "I saw-"

Her voice turned muffled as a husband or brother clamped his hand over her mouth. "She didn't see anything. Overactive imagination."

"They're too afraid," said Bowman. "People who speak against Undone Duncan and his gangs have a tendency to disappear."

"I don't see you going after him," said Mr. President's attendant. "At least our Regulars are looking for evidence."

Everard looked around. Hundreds of faces peered down at shoes, or up at the phosphorescent starlight, avoiding Mr. President's disappointed gaze.

With normal politics, Everard usually felt one corrupt party was as bad as the other. But this looked like a bunch of rich guys used to making up their own rules, while a population of cowards wouldn't help the one man trying to keep things fair. Of course, the connection between Mr. President and Undone Duncan changed that a little. Everard needed to figure that one out.

"You're all content to watch?" Mr. President grew frustrated. "And what will you do when Inc comes for you, with no rule of law to stop them?"

Maybe long ago his anger was intimidating, but now with his frail frame and cracking voice, it had more of a "get off my lawn" feel.

The old man's gaze met Everard's. Hadn't everyone just seen the carpet-face attack him?

Mr. President's silent plea for help looked genuine. These suits from Inc - whatever that was - were bullying this old man who was honestly trying to help. Everard balked at that thought. No one was ever honestly trying to help, and there was no reason Everard should, either.

On the other hand, he needed some facetime with the wannabe George Washington.

Everard stood. "I'll accuse him."

Bowman kept watching the carpet-face, but spoke to Everard. "You saw him murder someone?"

"No, but he just now attacked me and tried to force me to go with him."

The carpet-face stood, hands open and in front so the CFO wouldn't shake off another invisible blast at him. "You attacked me. You shoved me down the stairs."

Everard hesitated. Technically, he had knocked the guy down the stairs. Better not to admit that. "You attacked me! I don't even know who you are. I don't know anybody in this little..." he gestured at the crowd and the stage, "...get-together. Why would I attack you?"

"Are there witnesses to the Ailuromancer's accusation?" Mr. President asked the crowd. He gave Everard a knowing smile.

The goth kid who'd earlier yelled encouraging curses stood. "I saw it. That freak attacked the Ailuromancer."

Everard tucked that title away. Maybe Ailuromancer was slang for bounties. Maybe the Ailuromancer was whoever people kept mistaking him for.

"That's enough to hold him until trial," said Mr. President. "Captain, apprehend him."

Two Continental Regulars - not Tim Logan and his son, but two men who could be Redskins linebackers - hurried down the stairs to grab the carpet-face. He struggled, but his complaints were slurred. They dragged him through a doorway beside the stage.

"Thank you," said Mr. President, both to Everard personally and to the people in general. "If you let a private group arrest citizens without trial, where will it stop?"

"Aren't you a private group?" asked Bowman. "Are you leaders or not?"

The brown-wigged attendant said through clenched teeth, "We discourage criminals because the people begged us to after the Machinist Revolt. But we have a strict rule of law to which we hold ourselves accountable."

"That's the difference between us," said Bowman. "You pretend like you follow your own rules, that you're some kind of benevolent savior. We're honest about our intentions. We'll keep the people safe, and we'll do it our way: efficient and effective, like the businesses we've all managed."

"Quiet, Bowman," said CEO without lowering his gaze.

CFO Bowman gave the Burgesses a look that had probably made a hundred employees quiver in their boots, and then walked back to the older suit, an aggressive dog who still knew how to heel.

Everard exhaled, bored by their debate. Two groups of assholes pretending the hardest to have the people's interest at heart. He leaned over to redbeard. "How long do these things usually last?"

The man shrugged.

Mr. President addressed the crowd again. "I want you to think about what just happened. It's obvious you don't trust Inc. with criminals, so I ask you to reconsider trusting them elsewhere. Especially not with these recent disturbances."

Everard sat back down. Mr. President definitely recognized him. He'd show him the respect the old guy probably thought he deserved by waiting until his meeting was over, and then he was getting answers.

"Which disturbances?" asked the CEO. "The booms, the nightmares, or the bumps?"

"You all know about the bumps," said Mr. President. "We've been warning you for months. The Hunters are corralling the Boogeyman so he can be dealt with once and for all. Until that time, keep your lights on and stay out of your closets. By Monday it should be dealt with."

"Are you hearing this?" the CEO addressed the crowd. "He's putting you all in danger for his own pride."

Mr. President's attendant, losing her colonial affect. "Can it, dumbass. It's the Hunters doing it. If you think it's so important to stop their operation, why don't you step in?"

"The Hunters aren't a D.C. faction," said Bowman. "They're one of you."

"Irrelevant," said Mr. President, "the Boogeyman has plagued us for generations. How many of you have lost a loved one to the monster?"

Everard turned to see several nods throughout the crowd. He created a file in his mind labeled Weird Periphery Shit. He stuck the Boogeyman in there, where he'd keep it until he could get out of here and never think about it again.

"How many of you have heard his footsteps, or felt his breathing on the back of your neck?"

Even more nods.

"I imagine there are even a few of you who have killed the Boogeyman, only to have him show up again later."

A young woman, alone but wearing a wedding ring, let out a choked sob. "I cut his throat and burned his body. He still came. Oh god, I tried to stop him."

"The Hunters asked for the Burgesses' counsel on the issue."

"You mean your permission," said the CEO.

Mr. President talked over the interruption. "The Hunters came to me with a plan. They have a way to trap him. They forced him to the US, then the East Coast, now D.C. By tonight I expect he'll be trapped in a single neighborhood. Once he's confined to a single a closet, a single instance of himself, then killing him should be permanent. So activity may be high for the next day or so, but stay aware, and you'll be safe. And the Boogeyman will be gone forever."

"You couldn't even catch the Face Without a Name," said Bowman. "Why should we trust you now?"

The attendant spoke again. "Can you hear these idiots trying to manipulate you? This isn't a Burgess operation. It's the Hunter's game. I don't think anyone here doubts their ability."

The crowd buzzed in agreement.

"Either way," said the CEO, "they're distracting you from the larger issues."

"The booms," said Bowman.

"Yes." The CEO raised an eyebrow at his subordinate. "And the nightmares."

"Both are being investigated," said Mr. President.

"We need more than that," yelled a woman behind Everard.

"Agreed," said the CEO. "Who is investigating them? How? What progress has been made?"

Mr. President sighed.

"The Regulars are speaking to those who have had these nightmares. They may be connected with the Boogeyman. And need I remind you, dreams of approaching terror are common. In '89, a strong emotion shifter was conceived, carried, and born, which caused all varieties of chaos, including nightmares. In '74, '96, and '09, a wendigo wandered close to the city. Every few years we all share nightmares, there's always a different reason, and most are benign. We've documented them all. We're investigating the possibilities. We have it under control."

A familiar voice dissented. Everard turned around to see Lucy, nervously squeezing the folds of her red dress. "The Hexers have elected me to share that these nightmares aren't like those others. There's too many common images. Antlers. Moth wings. I fear those with a more perceptive subconscious are sensing something specific, as our usual charms aren't quelling the dreams. Isn't it likely connected to the booms?"

She quickly sat down, relieved she'd said her piece.

"It may well be something specific," said Mr. President. "But that doesn't indicate a threat. If it does, the Regulars will deal with it."

"Again and again," said the CEO, "trust us, they say. How many people have to die before they take action? He didn't answer your question about the booms."

"Nightmares are rarely fatal," said Mr. President, in the way he might say skin cancer is rarely fatal, leaving open the possibility that sometimes it was.

Everard added that to the file alongside the Boogeyman.

"If you don't trust the Regulars, remember that the NSA will step in if anything threatens the Central Nook. We aren't in any real danger."

"Fuck the NSA!" yelled someone from the back.

"Asking the people to trust the NSA?" said the CEO, amused. "That's your strategy. Are you even taking this seriously?"

"I've devoted my life to protecting this city. If you want me to prove my concern for my fellow Periphery Denizens, I'll do exactly that." A smug grin spread across Mr. President's face. "We've reason to suspect that Undone Duncan is behind the booms, and we've contracted Loretta Valazquez to investigate."

Excitement buzzed in the crowd. One Everard's row, someone gasped.

"That murderer?" said Bowman, incredulous or furious. Probably both.

"Careful," said Mr. President, in the tone of a man who'd just shown his cards to reveal a Royal Flush, "she's only ever gone after men who deserve it. And I doubt you want to suggest that the booms aren't important enough to warrant such a renowned investigator."

Agreement floated through the crowd. The CEO adjusted his tie.

"Loretta," said Mr. President, looking behind him, "how long will you need to handle this?"

A woman leaned against the cement foundation at the back of the stage. Everard hadn't noticed her arrive.

"Not long," she said, her voice dry.

There was a shifting around Everard as people noticed her and pulled away.

Loretta wore yoga pants and a lime green hoodie. Black hair was pulled into a hurried bun, while several neglected strands hung down to her shoulders, framing a light brown complexion. She looked up, revealing a face somewhere around forty. Not especially pretty, she looked like she should be driving back from the gym, getting ready to put the kids on the bus, or to change into a pantsuit and head to the office. She looked like most any woman who might commute into D.C., but people here seemed to be terrified of her. And to love her.

"Shouldn't take long to find the guys doing it. And it'll take even less time to convince them to cut it out." Loretta shot a grin at the CEO.

Someone started clapping, but stopped when no one else joined.

Bowman managed to make adjusting his collar a threatening gesture, his fingers sliding along the scar on his neck. "If you say your goal is to protect the people," he said, "then you should arrest her. Or do you prefer vigilantes roaming our streets?"

"That's right," said Loretta. "Convince them to cancel my contract. Then I'll have more time to focus on personal goals."

Bowman stared her down. "I swear to God, if you..."

"Careful what you say," warned Loretta. "I have to assume every threat is serious, and treat it as such. You sure you want to point your weapon at me?"

"Calm down now," said Mr. President. "We're all vigilantes, in one way or another. Thank you, Loretta. You're welcome to get started."

She gave Bowman a hate-filled glance and walked off the stage, slipping out of sight despite there being nothing to hide behind.

"We need to wrap up the meeting now," said Mr. President. "If you have further concerns, please send Minnie an email or log them at the station."

The brown wigged attendant - Minnie, apparently - unfolded a connected row of laptops on the edge of the stage.

The CEO chuckled. "This is how they take questions. You see how much they value your concerns."

"I personally read them all," spat Minnie.

Their argument was swallowed up by a hundred conversations as people made their way to the laptops or shouted at the Burgesses.

Everard hopped up to approach Mr. President, but the old man and Minnie hurried off the side of the stage, then through a door in the foundation.

Everard picked up George to follow them.

A deafening recording blasted through the amphitheater, a small chorus shouting, "FREE RYKER! FUCK THE NSA!"

People with their faces under hoodies sprinted away through an angry crowd.

Everard made another file, Periphery Shit I Don't Care About, then jogged through the door.

Chapter Eight

Everard slipped through the door by the stage, leaving the frustrated crowd behind.

He walked into a dark hallway, placed his hand on the cold cement wall for balance. The pressure must have been different in this enclosed space, because he felt a brief, dull buzz under his skin as he stepped forward.

"Cats can see in the dark, right?" he asked George. "Now would be a convenient time for you to decide you can talk."

Mr. President couldn't be too far ahead of him, especially if they were navigating this same darkness.

Everard pulled out his phone and opened the flashlight app, which bloomed a circle of light on the ground.

The hallway branched, one way extending out of sight, the other exiting the cement foundation some thirty feet ahead. Everard guessed Mr. President wouldn't want to stay in here any longer than necessary, and walked towards the open doorway.

He slid his hand along the wall for balance. A hole the size of a dinner plate opened in the cement, and his fingers slid over a patch of warm furry flesh. He jerked his hand away.

"The hell?"

Everard touched the fur again, shining the light directly on it. It was gray and mangy, interspersed with patches of scabbed flesh, belonging to some creature pushed up against the other side of this wall. Everard touched it again, its slow pulsing displaying the rhythm of breath.

George let out a slow, angry mix of a meow and a growl.

"I know, right?" agreed Everard. He jabbed the flesh, but it ignored him. It was heavy enough that he'd move before it did.

Now that he was looking for it, he saw other holes in both walls, each with gray fur over mangy pressed hard against them. In one instance, the flesh bulged out several inches. On either side of the corridor, each patch receded and expanded together, like a single creature breathing.

Everard calculated how quickly he could sprint back to the iron staircase that brought him down here, but he pushed the thought away. He wasn't going to run away and let these Burgesses destroy the privacy he'd spent a decade building. He filed the furry flesh with the other Weird Periphery Shit, but felt the "I'll think about it later" center of his brain getting overwhelmed.

He continued forward until the passageway ended, opening up to another wide space.

If the shops he'd walked through earlier were the "downtown" of this underground corner of DC, then this was the wrong side of the tracks.

Lean-to's made from pipes, tin foil, newspaper, and sticks pushed up against the stone and cement foundation he'd stepped out from.

Other buildings spread out before him, one of brick and mortar, another of welded scrap metal, another a log cabin. There were no roads, or even consistent paths. The buildings were as organized as a wild forest, with an undergrowth of refuse. Water dripped somewhere nearby and had left a smell of mildew, which mingled with something salty and rancid.

Real stars filled the moonless sky, with constellations Everard recognized, only they were huge. The hunter Orion stretched horizon to horizon.

A few people slipped among the shadows of the haphazard homes. A breathy, whistled tune grew louder as a little girl came out from behind a hut built from chicken wire and blue tarpaulin, pulling a wagon. The smudged dirt and motor oil on her skin didn't stop her from giving Everard a cheerful grin, revealing a missing front tooth. She picked up a bit off wire off the ground to toss it in her wagon. "Do you have any gum?"

Everard handed her a stick of Wintermint from his pocket. "Are your parents around here, or...?"

She dropped the paper on the ground and popped the gum into her mouth. "Mom's at home. Dad's still exploring. Bye." She crossed Everard's path to continue her search for scrap metal, which filled her wagon.

There was a human leg strapped to her back, foot wobbling behind her head. Everard didn't get a good look before she slipped out of sight, but he thought the leg was protruding from her lower back.

He climbed onto a pile of cinderblocks to get a look from a higher vantage point. The slums continued at least a few hundred yards. It didn't seem likely that Mr. President came out this way.

He decided to head back and take the other fork. Maybe that would lead to a quaint little 1700s village, like some underground Colonial Williamsburg. Stepping lightly, he headed back into the dank darkness of the hallway, but stopped when he heard footsteps ahead. The footsteps stopped after he did.

Someone was waiting for him.

Everard had been mugged several times. It certainly got your heart pumping, but it wasn't the scariest thing in the world. But chances were, this wasn't a mugger. It was someone with his wanted flyer. Still, Everard wasn't going to turn tail and run.

He turned his light back on, drew the Ruger, and continued forward.

Footsteps echoed from behind.

The flashlight app didn't light up much more than the perfect circle that it projected, like a flashlight in a cartoon. Shining it directly down the hall did almost nothing, so he kept it on the ground a few yards ahead of him.

The footsteps behind him quickened to a brisk walk, drew close. Everard turned to shine the light directly into a woman's face.

He jerked back, thinking he saw holes flit across her cheek. He caught his breath as he realized it was only another carpet-face.

Only. Geez.

"Out without your brothers?" she asked. "No one to protect you?"

"Listen," he said, gun still at his side in the dark, "I'm not this Ailuromancer you all think I am."

She crossed her arms and tapped a felt finger to her cheek. "Who else would carry around a cat?"

"I was getting him neutered." He heard how ridiculous that sounded as he said it out loud.

Footsteps behind him, then strong fingers closed around his arm. "This isn't the Ailuromancer, you fucktard."

"See?" said Everard, inching his finger around the trigger.

"It looks exactly like him," her voice faltered into uncertainty.

"It's the rebellist." Rough fingers squeezed his arm.

The woman leaned forward and squinted. "Oh yeah. What's your name again? Evan? Undone Duncan wants you even more than the Ailuromancer."

"Then he's going to be disappointed." Everard twisted his wrist to aim at the woman's gut and pulled the trigger.

A hollow clank sounded. There wasn't a round chambered.

The thug shoved him to the ground. George hissed as his carrier clattered across the cement. The woman kicked Everard's wrist, knocked the Ruger away. Everard leapt up to drive his fist into her jaw. Her head snapped back, and then impossibly strong arms wrapped around Everard's chest.

"Easy there, Evan."

The woman rubbed her jaw. "I felt that. You hit hard."

"Undone Duncan's gonna love him."

"Yeah, 'cause he's a rebellist. Not 'cause he's strong."

"Either way." The thug pushed Everard back toward the slums.

"What should I do with the cat?"

"I don't know. Bring it."

Everard let them guide him back past the breathing, furry patches, out through the little huts. These guys were strong as hell, but Everard was no slouch himself. He'd go along until the thug's grip loosened, even for a second.

"You're gonna change things around here," said the woman. "Finally get us the respect we deserve."

"Oh?" said Everard. "People weren't impressed by you wrapping yourself in carpet? Maybe try something different with your hair."

"Think you're funny?" she shook George's carrier, provoking a meowed wince. "Who's funny now?"

"Not my cat." Even Everard could hear the insincerity in his voice. Poor animal.

"Cool it," said the thug. "He won't be making fun of your skin after a few hours."

"So Undone Duncan wants my skin? That's where we're going?" He got his voice a little more in control.

"Oh, you'll see," said the female.

They weaved among shacks and lean-to's. He saw movement in the twisted alleys, but whoever it was must have been afraid of the reskinned.

The huts gave way to piles of junk. Rusty cars, iron beams, old washing machines. He wondered how they got down here, underneath. Or were they always here? Were there whole street systems, with upside down cars clinging to the underside of roads? A glance at the oversized constellations said things were even weirder than that.

Everard stumbled as the ground sloped downward. He breathed deep to keep his mind calm. He had to get away before they brought him to Undone Duncan. And the Perforated Woman.

"Keep moving," said the female reskinned.

As they gently descended, the junk piles grew taller. Soon, they were level with his head, then above it, about as high as a one-story house. The tops of the piles stayed even while the ground descended.

The rancid salty smell grew stronger, and he almost expected to hear seagulls.

"It's some kind of junkyard ocean," he muttered.

"The Junk Shoals," said the thug. "If you're smart, you've never come here before."

"If we were smart, we'd never come here." Fabric worry lines creased on the female's face.

The piles became gradually more dense, until they were weaving among them, at one point squeezing between a desk and a refrigerator. The starlight didn't reach down here, so his captors pulled out two Mag-lights.

A massive shadow swam by somewhere ahead. The Weird Periphery Shit file burst open, letting out the panic it'd been holding back.

Everard stomped his heel down on the thug's foot, hard enough to snap a two-by-four, then jerked free. He snatched George's carrier and took off.

His captors were too strong and too quick for him to run back through them, or even to break to the side. The only way to go was straight ahead, down into these Junk Shoals.

At first, he had only the dull glow from his pursuer's flashlights. Then he fumbled out his phone again to switch on that perfect circle of light.

George complained as his carrier bumped and rattled.

Everard knocked his shoulder against a wood pallet, scraping his skin. The trash shifted but stayed standing as he left it behind.

The piles of junk had turned into towers, impossibly balancing as they reached forty feet upwards. The tops of the towers remained constant, so with each stride downhill, they grew taller. The dirt beneath his feet became loose and gritty, making running difficult.

But it was just as difficult for the carpet-faces. They shouted orders at each other. Already, Everard heard exhaustion in their voices.

His foot caught on something hard. He pointed his light at the ground to reveal an undergrowth of tires, crates, and other small refuse. Maybe comparing this to an ocean was wrong. Maybe it was closer to a forest.

He ran gingerly, watching each footfall to avoid smashing into the towers.

On the outskirts of his light, he kept seeing movement. Small, darting flashes that moved like fish, only through the air.

A knot in his stomach told him he didn't want to go deeper into this ocean-forest of junk.

Could he circle around without letting the reskinned catch up to him? Or would it be easier to switch off his light and hide in the darkness?

Something cold and smooth brushed the back of his neck. He swatted at nothing. He jumped away, turned around to see shifting shadows behind a wire bedframe. They stilled.

His heart pounded. George hissed, as freaked out as Everard felt.

Hiding in the dark wasn't an option. Besides, George's protests would probably give away any hiding place.

He looked for an opportunity to change direction.

This way.

The thought came strong and familiar. He couldn't help but listen.

Everard curved left around a stack of rusted chicken wire and fence posts, now sprinting perpendicular to their earlier path, parallel to the shore.

He wondered briefly how deep the Junk Shoals got, how far out they went, what was on the other side.

The carpet-faces shouted at each other. By their voices, one was directly behind him, and one to his left, trying to stay between him and freedom.

Ahead, some thirty feet above ground, a blue glow pierced the darkness.

This way, came the thought again.

The blue glow was hypnotically tempting, but his adrenaline was behind the wheel now. He wanted out, and nothing else, but he hadn't pulled ahead enough yet to cut back towards shore. He slowed, considered going farther downhill.

The glow's approach didn't slow. It lumbered towards him, and Everard sensed something massive moving within its shadow.

George hissed, scratched and kicked against the carrier. Everard sprinted downhill.

The light overtook him, vanishing as it passed overhead, but replaced with a humid scent of rotten meat. His flashlight went out. The ground rumbled beneath his feet. He brushed against a leathery wall, or rather it brushed against him. Another wall pressed against his back, locking him in place. They slid past, freeing him. He dug his feet into the silt, resisted getting pulled back. He held George's carrier tight against his chest, as the tomcat hissed and rowled at the world passing around them.

And then everything was still.

Everard swallowed.

No walls touched him, although the humidity and stench remained. The ground was solid under his boots.

His phone wouldn't turn on.

"That night vision kicking in, yet?" whispered Everard to George. "You better give me a heads up before anything jumps out at me."

A thick, wet voice answered from behind. "That's an old wives' tale. They still need a little light. The same is true of night-vision goggles, actually."

Everard whirled to face the voice. "Who's there?"

"If you were the Ailuromancer, you'd recognize me. So that must mean you're Everard Harrison."

Everard took a step back. "Undone Duncan."

"In the flesh."

"Why are you hiding in the dark?"

He chuckled. "I was hoping we could talk. My physician tells me you scare easily at... new sights."

"Your voice isn't exactly welcoming. Could you spit out your gum?"

Undone Duncan exaggerated the schlocking sound of his speech. "I didn't expect a rebellist to frighten so quickly. Although I shouldn't be too harsh; this is all new to you, isn't it?"

Footsteps as the man circled Everard. His voice came above. How tall was this guy?

"Let me be the first to welcome you, then. As an equal."

"Thanks, but I'm not planning on sticking around."

"But you don't even know why you've come."

"Because the Burgesses sent you after me. Which I'm dealing with."

A surprised bark of laughter from Undone Duncan. "That pompous cult will be livid when they discover that I found you first. But yes, I wouldn't have known about you if they hadn't spread the word. They should have realized no bounty is as valuable as you are."

Everard wished he still had the Ruger. He had no idea how to get out of here. "I really don't care. I just want you freak shows to leave me alone."

"You're special, Everard Harrison. There's only a few like you in the city. Something they've been lording over me for too long."

"Yeah, I'm a real one-in-a-million kind of guy." Everard backed away until he found the wall. It was smooth leather.

"You're going to help me."

"You can't afford my rates." Everard sidestepped along the leather, searching for an exit.

"I'm not paying you. Or even offering you a choice."

A hand cupped Everard's face. In the moment before he jerked away, he felt Undone Duncan's flesh slide on the palm and around the fingers, like an oversized rubber glove.

"I'll even let you select your new skin."

Everard inhaled sharply, pushing back against the wall, desperate to get away from Undone Duncan's freakish skin. He caught himself, recognized his fear. It pissed him off.

"You'll be the envy-"

Everard punched Undone Duncan's mouth. One of his knuckles popped.

"-of my organization."

"Dammit," Everard hissed in pain and shock.

"While I expect belligerence from a rebellist, that's a terrible way to treat your host. I suppose it means you've overcome your fear, at least for the moment."

Red light filled the room.

Undone Duncan towered over Everard, at least seven feet tall. Patches of skin clung to exposed muscle, like a circus strong man had been skinned and then tried to glue pieces of that skin back on. He wore a wife-beater, black slacks, and loafers. His chest was as big around as horse's, and he had the massive limbs to match.

"You came at an opportune time. This skin is on its way out."

The patches weren't stuck on. Their edges sank into the muscle, as if the muscle was slowly absorbing its covering.

Everard froze, the pain of his knuckle forgotten.

"My physician will see you now." Undone Duncan left the crimson-lit room through a stitched leather curtain.

The Perforated Woman entered.

Chapter Nine

The Perforated Woman sauntered toward Everard. He refused to look at the sliding swarm of perforations, ignoring the hypnotic lure even as he felt it push against his mind like a wave against sand.

Red light emanated from fleshy protrusions on the ceiling, illuminating the room that was like the inside of a leather egg. Shelves lined one wall, housing bolts of fabric and an assortment of craft and hardware store rejects.

At the far end of the room, a rusty contraption hissed to life. The machine stood twelve feet high and twenty-five feet long. A wooden frame rattled as the jumbled mass of pistons, gears, razor blades, and conveyor belts started chugging. A spool of thread and a bolt of cloth - the same as the carpet-faces - hung above the machine, waiting to be yanked down into it. It looked like an old automatic steam press you'd see in dry cleaners, only designed by a twisted mind.

The Perforated Woman slid a finger down Everard's cheek, forcing him to look at her. The holes enveloped her finger then swam back up her arm and across her face.

"You're wondering again, aren't you?" she asked. "What it would feel like to open yourself up to my gifts."

The rumble and clanking of the machine in the corner sounded muffled. George meowed. He, too, sounded far away. Everard forced himself to look away, to stop following the movement across her cheek, through her hair, back around her neck.

At the center of the room was a fifty-gallon drum with a tangle of wires and tubes looping in and out.

"Undone Duncan said you could choose your new skin, but he's not as experienced in this as I am. The inductees we have to coerce can never make up their minds." She beckoned him with a single finger to the shelves.

He followed, glancing at the curtained doorway, looking for his chance to escape, fearing if that chance came, his legs might not obey.

"I expect you'll rise through the ranks fast enough that you'll soon report only to Undone Duncan - and to me, of course - so let's find something to set you apart." She touched a bolt of thick fabric, a spool of chain, a sheet of clear plastic.

"Hey, what's he for?"

The unfamiliar voice shocked him out of the trance. Everard stepped toward the doorway, but a glance from the Perforated Woman stopped him in his tracks.

A young man sat in the machine, strapped into a chair with ripped and mended seatbelts. He wore a trenchcoat and fedora, had a beard that was thickest on his neck, and was severely overweight. The contours of the chair kept his head facing the wall, so he looked at them out of the corner of his eyes. "You said I'd be next. You said I'd be the next one to progress."

Everard couldn't tell if the pain in his voice was emotional, or if it had something to do with why he couldn't move his head.

"When you're ready, Joshua," said the Perforated Woman, guiding Everard toward the machine. "For now, this is how you can best serve Undone Duncan."

"But-" Joshua started to protest, but she pulled a lever and he grunted and tensed like he was being shocked. The machine kicked into high gear.

She stopped to smile at his pain. Everard made it halfway to the curtain before she held up a hand. He stopped. The pleasure on her face shifted to exertion. He was wearing her out. Maybe he could get out of this.

Against his will, Everard dropped George to follow her to the end of the machine. He stared into it, seeing first a chaos of gears and pistons, but gradually making out a consistency of movement, not a path to travel along but a whirlpool to be sucked through. The vision came of being shoved in, conveyor belts dragging him forward, razor blades sliding along and then into his skin, needles flicking furiously to clothe his exposed muscle and sinew in whatever material the Perforated Woman decided on.

He couldn't move, couldn't even turn his head. He needed the machine to break. Stop. Throw a gear. Snap a piston. He willed something to go wrong, envisioned a single cog slipping and all the metal and steam imploding on itself.

He felt that unfamliiar misty weight around his mind again, holding back his will, like when the Perforated Woman had first attacked. He didn't know what the mental blockade was, or what the result of breaking through would be. He only knew he hated anything restricting him. He pushed against it, willed himself against it, his belligerance feeling like a new appendage.

The pistons surged, and then for a moment, the machine stuttered.

His efforts against the mental wall gave way. The machine continued strong.

"An honest effort," said the Perforated Woman, her breath tickling his ear. "Impressive, since you don't even know what you're doing yet, do you?" The palms of her hands pressed against his back; he somehow knew that the swarm of perforations swirled around the fingers of her right hand, and any second they would leap onto his back to fling him forward.

An explosion - a cacophony of black powder, snare drums, and fife notes - ripped Everard from his hypnosis. The far wall had burst inward. From the patch of ripped leather, silhouetted against the darkness outside, two figures entered, male and female. The man aimed a short musket and advanced, crouched, sweeping the room. He wore a tactical vest that was some homemade amalgamation of a fishing vest and a bandolier, thrown over street clothes.

The woman let her companion check the room as she spotted the Perforated Woman and headed straight for her. She wore a similar vest to her companion, although with a blouse and slacks like she'd come from a business dinner. In her right hand she carried a flint tomahawk; in her left a black handgun. As she advanced, she raised the gun and fired steadily at the Perforated Woman.

Everard dove to the ground.

He didn't know what happened to the bullets, but they didn't hit their mark. The Perforated Woman charged her challenger.

"Goddamn Minutemen!" screamed Joshua, practically frothing in rage. "It's my turn! I'm tired of waiting!"

These were the Minutemen the people in the meeting had mentioned - the ones who didn't listen to the Burgesses. He'd wanted to meet them, but maybe not in these circumstances.

Everard crawled along the floor, aiming for the newly created exit, trying to get the image out of his mind of a whirlpool of razorblades and needles. George hissed from his carrier, only a few feet out of his way. He couldn't abandon Bill Bill's cat. Well, he could, considering it was the old man who'd got him into this mess, but it still didn't seem right.

The Perforated Woman threw a shimmering stone at the Minuteman. She deflected it with the tomahawk, then responded by throwing the small ax, which became a spinning line of several axes that the Perforated Woman ducked to avoid.

The male intruder had determined the room clear and was now aiming his short musket at the hole they'd created. He drew near to Everard. "My name's Stirling. You okay, buddy?"

"Sure, except for being kidnapped by Muppets and almost thrown into a machine by a woman with living holes in her skin."

"Good." Stirling fired through the hole. The musket bucked, knocking him back a step.

Everard rubbed at his ear. "What the hell, man?" he barely heard himself say.

The Perforated Woman deflected another tomahawk throw. "Joshua," she screeched, "the spell!"

Yanking himself out of his straps, Joshua staggered toward the barrel. The Minuteman with the musket shouted "stand down!" but the teen slammed his palm through the net of wires, against the metal drum.

The resulting boom shook Everard's bones, deafened him beyond even the musket shot.

The world froze for a second, and then an overpowering force, infinitely greater than the Perforated Woman's hypnotism, steamrolled into his mind the desire to leave, to head away from the barrel as far and as fast as possible.

But Everard was tired of being pushed around.

He fought it, planting his feet, preparing to join the fight against the Perforated Woman, until a ripping pain exploded inside his chest, tore through his limbs. It disappeared as fast as it'd come. His face was pressed against the floor, and it surprised him to be in one piece.

Everard crawled to his knees. Both Minutemen stood confused at the opening to the outside. They hadn't resisted the expelling force of whatever Joshua had triggered. The red light from the fleshy protusions on the ceiling spilled outside to reveal towers of junk.

The Perforated Woman advanced on them.

Joshua pumped his fist in the air, triumphant. The machine he'd left still chugged, although more slowly now. Everard felt the vibrations through the floor, his hearing still cloudy. With the Perforated Woman distracted, Joshua ran to the opening of the machine and threw himself inside.

His screams sounded like haunted moans to Everard's recovering ears.

The Perforated Woman rolled her eyes as the machine dragged him through flashing razorblades and darting needles. Blood spattered over the rattling wood and iron frame, and Everard realized what he'd thought was rust was actually dried blood. Everard's hearing steadily returned as the machine slowed, then stopped, leaving Joshua half skinned, half resown with thread and fabric, howling in agony.

Everard crawled backwards, unable to look away.

Her lackey's pain only an annoyance, the Perforated Woman leapt at the Minutemen. They dove out of the way.

A string of gunshots echoed across the room as the female intruder fired at the Perforated Woman. The bullets didn't hit their mark, but their target did strain like she was pushing against something heavy.

The man pulled a black sphere from his vest and tossed it at the wired drum. Another explosion, this time heavier on the colonial marching music, collapsed the device in on itself.

Through his ringing ears, Everard heard fife and drum. This was actual marching music.

"Cavalry's here," grinned Stirling. His voice still sounded like Everard was wearing earplugs.

"No," growled the female Minuteman. "Not yet."

The Perforated Woman's lips moved rhythmically, and then the space around her twisted and she was gone.

Everard's rescuer cursed, examining the abandoned space. She seemed displaced, like her image was being refracted by water.

"Hey, step away from there," said Stirling, going to her side. She shook with frustration.

Continental Regulars burst inside like a swat team, wielding five foot muskets instead of automatic rifles. Or maybe they were magically automatic. Everard didn't know.

The two who'd actually rescued him put up their hands, so Everard followed suit.

"Hands up!" the lead Regular shouted.

Everard recognized him. Private Nick Logan. He looked closer at the uniformed men and women who swept the room, and found Nick's father.

Joshua cursed the Regulars, then moaned in pain. General Tim Logan gestured toward him and two Regulars set aside their muskets to start dismantling the machine.

Tim said something muffled to Everard.

"What?" Everard rubbed at his ear. "I'm not actually sure how loud I'm talking."

"Pretty loudly," Tim said. Or shouted. "You should have listened to me about the Perforated Woman."

Even shouting, Tim had a caring, grandfatherly look about him.

"Trust me," said Everard. "I wanted to run."

His initial rescuers interrupted.

"You scared her off!" yelled the woman. "Do you realize how complex a feint I was performing so she'd stick around long enough to capture?" A desperation decorated the rage in her voice. Everard wondered if there was something personal there.

The Continental Regulars around the room stared unabashedly, watching how their commander would react.

"We answered your request for backup, Meredith," Tim's expression turned blank. "We appreciate the Minutemen informing us when they sense someone in danger; but perhaps you'd rather we didn't turn away the twenty reskinned who were headed your way."

So that's how they knew where he was; some patriotic Spidey-sense.

"It's Captain McIntosh in these types of settings." She adjusted her vest, then added, "Tim."

"You Minutemen did your job well," said Tim, the grandfather coming out again, "and we thank you for that. All our charms and trinkets will never detect danger like you can. But you need to let us do our job, too."

The grandfather had come out a little too much. "Don't patronize me. We just shut down Undone Duncan's lab."

"He'll build another." Nick Logan tossed a row of mechanical arms with razorblades to the ground. Joshua tried and failed to tug himself free.

"Is he dying?" asked Everard. The poor kid had no skin above his stomach. Everard's gut protested the sight, but he kept it together since everyone else acted like it was normal.

"Nah. He's pretty angry, though," said Nick, then turned back to Meredith. "You couldn't capture her the first six times we took out their lab. Why would this time be any different?"

Everard zoned out from the argument between the Continental Regulars and the Minutemen. He wandered over to the collapsed barrel and wire machine. Its pieces were crumpled metal now, condensed to an impossibly small pile of scrap by a bomb that sounded like colonial marching music. He'd almost had his skin replaced with fabric by a woman with a living swarm of holes in her body, so she could give it to a man whose muscles would devour it. Breathing deep, Everard leaned on the leather wall, wondered what sort of leather it was, and stepped away.

A mixture of fear and fury roiled inside him, the first triggering the latter. A few hours ago, he'd finished the Fairfax job, headed home to relax in front of his TV, and maybe spend his time off discovering a new hobby. Clear his head a little. Wrap his mind around the fact that he wouldn't mind hearing Abby hum showtunes every day for the foreseeable future.

Now he was tramping through a psychopath's Wonderland, trying to find these Burgess assholes so he could get them to leave him alone. Problem was, Undone Duncan had made it clear he wanted Everard regardless of the Burgesses' bounty. But Everard could jump off that bridge when he came to it.

First, he wanted to talk to the asshole who'd sent him down here in the first place. "Hey."

The Minutemen and Regulars paused their argument.

"You know a guy calls himself 'Bill Bill?' Old, crazy, likes cats?"

The Regulars looked to Tim, who answered for them. "Yes."

"Where the fuck is he?"

Chapter Ten

Everard walked down a side street to a cul-de-sac off the Mall nook market. Tim had pointed him to the Periphery's center of nightlife, saying he thought Bill Bill would be at a restaurant called the Black Sheep. Everard took off without a word. He was already rehearsing how he would tear into his elderly neighbor once he found him.

The Minutemen, Meredith and Stirling, escorted him until they reached the amphitheater, claiming they were headed that way anyway. Everard figured they didn't want to feel their Spidey-sense call them back if someone else came after him.

They'd given him directions to the Black Sheep, but hadn't mentioned how he'd know which building it was.

Five buildings on the cul-de-sac hummed with patrons.

Some shopkeepers were shutting down, locking their doors or folding up their stalls, while others were just setting up, organizing wares more suited to the night crowd.

A pink-haired woman with gages in her lower lip and ears carefully laid little foil squares on a wheeled cart. They looked like condoms, and Everard almost postponed everything to figure out what crazy condom magic they might have down here, but he shelved his curiosity and continued on.

George meowed and shuffled his weight around the carrier.

"I wonder if you're getting hungry," said Everard. "How often do cats eat?" He thought it was more often than dogs, but he wasn't sure.

He realized he was starving, and looked into George's carrier for the sandwich he'd stowed there hours earlier. The paper was ripped, and several bites of the meat and bread were gone. "So you're okay on food, then."

George shot Everard an indignant glare, weakened by the dab of mayonnaise on his ear.

Everard explored the marketplace, peering in open doors. Bar noise drifted out from a building made of sheet metal and rivets. Didn't seem Bill Bill's style.

Through the windows of an imposing three-story, grey stone Victorian, Everard saw tuxedoed waiters. That place could maybe be called the Black Sheep, but Bill Bill wasn't exactly a connoisseur of the finer things in life.

Further down, a two-story, red brick igloo covered in flowering green vines emitted music that was somehow both quick and lilting. Everard couldn't place the instrument - some kind of woodwind.

Weird enough for Bill Bill.

Everard walked over and inside.

A sweet, violet haze filled the room, product of the two dozen patrons smoking from hookahs. No, smoking from a single hookah at the center of the room. Everard didn't recognize the scent - some mix of weed and blackberries - but then again he didn't frequent many hookah bars.

"Hey!" said a skinny teenager wearing tight red jeans and a t-shirt depicting a bear munching on a branch and the word Rubblebucket. "Come on in, man."

Everard hadn't seen someone so happy since the college dropout he hired showed up to work stoned out of his mind. Which made sense.

"I'm Brian. It's great to meet you." He actually sounded like he meant it. "Grab a seat."

"Everard. But I'm actually looking for someone."

"Right? Aren't we all. Hey, is that a cat?" Brian crouched to look at George. "Little man! What's his name?"

"Uh, George. Is this the Black Sheep? I'm looking for a guy named Bill Bill."

"This is the Brick House, but hold on." Brian shouted through the haze. "Bill Bill, are you in here?"

After a second, he shouted again. "Renae, is Bill Bill here?"

A female voice responded, "Haven't seen him."

"Sorry man, sometimes he comes in with a few Bluecoats. Get it? Bluecoat, because they have blue coats, like the British had red coats? You get it. I'm trying to get people to start calling the Regulars Bluecoats. Wouldn't that be great?"

"Sure." So Bill Bill was definitely involved with the Burgesses. "Where's the Black Sheep?"

"Across the way. Looks like a haunted house."

Everard had been right the first time.

"A lot of that crowd eats there. The Burgesses, No-Gos, Inc, Famers. Yeah, you might find Bill Bill there."

"Okay, well. Thanks." Everard headed out.

"Awesome to meet you, Everard. Later, George!"

Everard walked up the steps to the Black Sheep and inside.

It turned out pricey restaurants were the same wherever you went. Soft lighting, live piano jazz, a polished bar with wine glasses hanging from the ceiling. A smell of fried fish and steamed vegetables. People dining in pairs or small groups, each dressed like they wanted to impress someone rich.

Everard didn't spot his neighbor at any of the tables, but he did see a man wearing the high collar, ascot, and brass buttons that might have meant he was with the Burgesses. He dined with a similarly dressed woman, probably his wife.

A small party of men in suits laughed at something one of them had said. The CEO and Bowman were among them, silver-haired leader of Inc and his square-chinned attack dog.

Everard walked to the bar and asked the bartender, "is Bill Bill in?"

The bartender stuck a lime slice on a glass. "Nope. Took off about an hour ago."

"You know where he went?"

"Couldn't tell you." He delivered a tray of drinks to the suits.

Everard leaned his back against the bar and surveyed the room.

He decided to talk to the colonial couple, until he saw someone who he thought might help even more: the woman who Mr. President said was going to stop the booms, Loretta. She sat at a corner table with a man around her age, probably her husband. The nearby tables were empty. The waiter approached to fill their wine glasses, and Everard could have sworn his hand shook like he was scared. The husband thanked the waiter, who left, looking relieved.

Everard pulled a chair from the neighboring table and joined Loretta.

The restaurant went silent except for the pianist, who stubbornly kept on with his jazzy tune. Everyone stared at Everard. Even the waiters ignored their tables to watch.

"Loretta," her husband put his hand on hers, speaking in the tone Everard used with pissed-off clients.

Loretta looked Everard up and down.

Maybe this wasn't the right approach.

The bartender hurried over. "Hey there, buddy. I've got a nice table for you over here. Drinks on the house."

Too late to turn back now. Better to just lean into it.

With the attention of the entire restaurant, Everard said, "I'm comfortable here, but I'll take that drink."

"Seriously, kid. Her husband's here." The bartender paused like he was expecting Everard to finish the thought, then said, "and we don't talk to Loretta when her husband's here."

"He'll have a Bay's Imperial Stout," said Loretta.

Everyone flinched, like a wave had moved through the room.

"You heard the lady," said Everard.

"Of course." The bartender withdrew, spared a pitying glance.

"I'm Everard," he said to Loretta.

"Loretta," she said.

Everard looked at the husband, waited for a name.

"Over here," said Loretta. "Look at me."

The husband shook his head, smiled, took a bite of salad.

Everard shrugged.

"You can call him Jose."

"Really." While Loretta was Latina, this guy was white as Prince Charles. "It's great to meet you, Jose."

"You don't talk with Jose. You talk with me. I'd have thought you already knew that. But then again, I'd have thought also that you wouldn't be foolish enough to make Undone Duncan angry. I saw you in the square. You're either bold or stupid. Which is it?"

For a second he saw the whirring razorblades and needles of Undone Duncan's machine, felt the Perforated Woman's fingertips pressing on his back. "A little bit of both, probably."

The buzz of conversation around them picked back up. The bartender brought Everard a bottle and mug, opened the bottle. "Hey, can you bring me a sandwich or something? Whatever will get out here quickest."

"Of course," the bartender said through his teeth.

Loretta took a swig from her own cup. "Everard the bold and stupid. What insanity made you interrupt my dinner with my husband?"

The man definitely not named Jose looked at Everard with amused curiosity.

"I'm looking for a friend, told me to meet him somewhere down here," said Everard. "Bill Bill."

"Then why are you talking to me?" asked Loretta.

"I don't know where to find him. If you work for Mr. President, I figure you might know where to find Bill Bill. Pretty sure he's involved with them somehow."

Loretta scoffed. "Pay attention: I don't work for Mr. President. He's my client; he paid my fee. I'm no rebellist, but no one gives me orders."

Everard thought he might like Loretta.

"If you don't know Bill Bill's relation to the Burgesses, you must be new, no? Now I see why you thought it was okay to stick yourself into our dinner."

"You caught me," said Everard. "Today's my first day in the Periphery. Bill Bill sent me down here, and now I'd like to find him."

Loretta sipped her beer. "He sent you?"

"More or less."

"Hmm. I'd check the House of Burgesses. That's usually where you'll find him. What do you want to talk to him about?"

Everard decided he trusted her. She seemed belligerent enough to not have any ulterior motives. "The bounty the Burgesses put on me. I want it gone."

"Too late," said Loretta. "Everyone already knows you exist. Besides, you should be asking why there's a bounty on you in the first place."

"I don't care about why. I only want to get back to my life."

"That'll be a problem, what with Inc over there." She gestured toward the suits.

"What've they got to do with anything?"

"Everything. They'll do anything to make the Burgesses look weak. Even bribe Undone Duncan to grab you before anyone brings you in."

Bowman laughed at something another suit had said.

"Those guys sent the Perforated Woman after me? Almost got me tossed into that machine?"

"They're the money behind it."

"How do you know?" His anger grew as it found a nearby target.

"I discover secrets for a living." She popped an olive into her mouth. "Now drink your damn beer. Antonio's probably putting it on my bill."

Bill Bill might have started all this, but it was Inc almost getting him killed. "What do they want with me?"

"Maybe you should ask."

"I think I will." Everard stood, his chair screeched on the floor. Still curious about the guy who approached Loretta when her husband was around, the diners glanced at Everard, then back to their food to avoid catching his attention. He took a swig from his mug. "Watch George for me."

Jose muttered, "What'd you do that for?"

Everard ignored it and walked over, tapped Bowman on the shoulder.

"Hey buddy. Word on the street is you're calling up the freakshow, sending them my way. Mind telling me why?"

A scowl of disbelief decorated Bowman's clean-shaven, blocky face. He looked like a Men's Warehouse model.

The other men, who all had similar features, exchanged glances, and then looked to the CEO, expectantly. The silver-haired man nodded to Bowman.

"Antonio," Bowman called to the bartender. "This gentleman is disrupting our meal."

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" said Antonio, coming around the bar. "Jesus Christ."

"You can just call me Everard." He tapped Bowman's shoulder again, this time more of a jab. "I asked you why you're paying Undone Duncan to harass me. You got an answer?"

Before the bartender reached Everard, Loretta said, "Antonio, I need another beer."

Antonio hesitated, stuck between pissing off two people who terrified him.

Everard felt bad for the guy, so he decided to make sure the suits focused all their attention on him. He shoved Bowman, making him spill wine down his beige, dotted tie. "Whoops."

"Bowman," said the CEO, "deal with him."

Everard stepped back, letting Bowman stand. The suited man wiped his shirt with a cloth napkin then threw it down.

"You must be new here," said Bowman.

"People keep commenting on that," said Everard. "Do you not get many visitors?"

"Not visitors with a death wish."

"I just want to know what you and Undone Duncan want with me."

"We don't do business with criminals," said Bowman. "Not that we answer to people like you."

Bowman took off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves. He stood a few inches taller than Everard, but a little skinnier. Swinging a hammer and carrying lumber did more for you than sitting at a desk all day.

"C'mon guys," said Antonio. "Maybe you could go talk outside."

"I just want him to answer my question," said Everard.

"Let's do what he's asked and go outside," said Bowman. "Stop bothering the patrons of this fine establishment."

Everard said what he thought would piss off Bowman the most. "I can't be the only one wondering what's got you excited enough to work with that murderer."

He pointed at the old colonial couple. "Don't you want to know why?"

The couple became deeply interested in their food.

"What about you?" Everard said to a man dressed as a glam rocker, sitting at a long table surrounded by his groupies.

The glam rocker mumbled something.

"What?" said Everard.

"I ain't fucking with Inc," he said.

Around the room, uncomfortable faces avoided eye contact with Everard. Except for Loretta and Jose, who looked amused and slightly worried, respectively.

Everyone down here was a coward. Too scared to accuse a reskinned, too scared to ask Inc a question.

"What do you want with me?" Everard demanded. He stepped nose-to-nose with Bowman.

The CFO didn't back down. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're lying."

"Bowman," warned the CEO, "my food is getting cold. Are you capable of doing your job?"

"You heard your master," said Everard. "Now be a good dog and throw me out."

Practically snarling, Bowman grabbed Everard's shoulders to shove him towards the door. But Everard had been right: thirty minutes at the gym couldn't overcome sitting at a desk all day. Bowman pushed himself backwards more than anything.

Everard laughed, but then Bowman hit him with a flurry of punches. He felt his cheek split under his eye and his front teeth cut his mouth.

"Not in here," shouted Antonio.

Everard drove his fist into Bowman's side. The taller man grunted, raised his forearms to deflect Everard's second strike.

Everard wiped blood from his face as they reevaluated each other. He was getting that familiar feeling in his gut, the one that said he was in over his head, the one he usually ignored. But shit, no hypnotism, no skinned men—he could handle this.

"I don't want a show," said the CEO. "Remove him. Now."

Bowman pulled a lighter and a fifty dollar bill from his shirt pocket. He flicked the lighter to ignite a black flame, touched it to the bill, which burnt in a flash. Exactly like he'd done before subduing the reskinned.

Everard had forgotten about that. The twinge in his gut erupted into panic. He lunged for the lighter.

Bowman flicked his wrist. A six inch steel pipe appeared above Everard - not connected to anything - swung down into his gut to lift him off the ground and sent him crashing down onto a table. The diners leapt out of the way. Warm food and cold drinks dripped through Everard's shirt. He crawled to his hands and knees, finding a place to push himself up that didn't have shattered glass or ceramic.

His stomach hurt—both from the impact there and the impact a little farther south—and the blow had knocked the wind out of him. He breathed quick and sharp.

"Cheap shot," he wheezed. Where had that pipe come from?

Bowman pulled out another bill, lit it.

"No," said Everard. An invisible, pressing weight around his mind again. He couldn't take another hit like that, and more than that, the situation was just screwed up. Inc had almost got him killed by Undone Duncan, and this room was as scared of the suits as they were of the reskinned. The whole thing pissed him off. The mental mist pushed against him, but his fury burst through it. "No."

The black flame disappeared. The bill remained half burned.

Everard breathed deeper, air finally coming in normally. What had he just done?

Bowman flicked the lighter again. The flame popped to life.

Holding tight to that same feeling of resistance, Everard willed the flame to go out. The weight around his mind returned in full force. The flame fluttered like a breeze had passed through, then it burned strong, enveloping the cash.

Everard braced himself.

"That's enough." Loretta spoke calmly, placing herself between them.

Bowman hesitated. The air buzzed with potential energy.

The restaurant patrons closest had left their tables to get out of the way, leaving if they were close to the door.

"Everard," said Loretta, "apologize for staining his shirt."

"No," said Everard.

"An apology is hardly going to atone for this slight." The CEO stood to walk to Bowman's side, leather soles tapping on the wood floors. "I'm afraid this man will have to come with us."

Everyone in the restaurant watched intently, except for Antonio, who was already picking up the broken dishes.

"And go where?" asked Loretta. "You don't have the authority to arrest anybody."

"And the cult you work for does?" spat Bowman.

"I work for lots of people," said Loretta. "But the people asked the Burgesses to handle crime."

The CEO adjusted his cufflinks. "The people today do not all agree with the decisions of their grandparents."

Everard became distracted by Bowman's tie. It was beige and polka-dotted earlier. Now it was red, and halfway down, a little piece of cloth jutted to the side, carefully stitched like it'd been designed that way.

The three other suits stood. They must have all gone to the same tailor. The five men faced down Loretta. They were all taller than her, but somehow it felt like she was the one with the power.

"Until the people ask you to take over," said Loretta, "making off with a free denizen is kidnapping."

One of the suited men spoke, the only one with any kind of extra fat under his chin. "You're not immortal, Loretta."

"I never said I was." Loretta pulled Everard to his feet, brushed off spaghetti and crushed bread.

"And neither is your husband."

She stopped. Everard could have sworn the room dropped ten degrees.

The patrons went from watching the drama to staring at their food. Another group slipped out the door.

Even the other suits looked incredulously at their double-chinned friend, anxiously shuffling a few inches away.

Bowman took a full step to the side.

The CEO raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm sure Mr. Huff only meant to say-"

"I know exactly what he meant to say," said Loretta.

Everard looked over at Jose, who took a swig of Everard's beer, as relaxed as a guy at a baseball game.

Mr. Huff cleared his throat, the vain look of juvenile superiority replaced with fear of either Loretta or of the CEO's fear of Loretta. "My intention was to say that we must all care for our own. Inc cares for the people of the Periphery like you care for your husband."

"You must have been a lawyer," said Loretta. "I hate lawyers."

She turned to Everard. "You all right?"

"Yeah," he said, embarrassed to have to be rescued in front of an audience. And now twice in one night. At least the first time had just been some insane criminals, not these infuriating "I'll be in charge because I care" sociopaths of Inc. He'd meant to put them in their place; instead he'd reinforced everyone's fear of them.

"You ready?" Loretta asked Jose.

He nodded, tossed some cash on the table, then walked out carrying a beer in one hand and George's carrier in the other.

Bowman lifted his red tie, examined the strange protrusion, then shot Everard a knowing look.

"After you," said Loretta to Everard.

"Hold on." Everard pulled some cash from his wallet and handed it to Antonio. "Sorry, about... well. Sorry."

He walked outside.

Behind him, Loretta said, "split the rest of the damages between my bill and Inc's."

Everard expected her to turn back at the last second to do something to Mr. Huff, but instead she joined them on the street.

"Now you," Loretta pointed at Everard, "are going to explain a few things."

Chapter Eleven

Loretta lead Jose and Everard back towards the amphitheater, interrogating Everard along the way.

"You made his lighter go out, yes?"

"How would I do that?" He'd made a few things happen throughout the evening, fighting against that invisible weight around his mind. Might be interesting to find out exactly what that was, once he got his privacy back.

Loretta drifted from one side of the street to the other, which Everard thought was odd, as none of this could be new to her, until he realized she was placing herself between her husband and any perceived threats - dark alleys, passing strangers, stray dogs.

"Plenty of ways you could do it," she said. "Make the wind blow it out. Create a vacuum to smother it. Pull the moisture in the air to put it out."

"I didn't do anything like that," said Everard.

"I know you didn't," said Loretta. "So what did you do? What were you thinking about when it happened?"

They reached the amphitheater, headed down the steps.

Everard struggled with how to say it. "How I didn't want to get thrown around again."

"And you imagined the flame going out?"

"I guess so, yeah."

"And you didn't imagine water or wind or anything putting it out?"

"No, just that it went out."

Loretta stopped by the stage. She spoke more quickly. "This is important: did you want the flame to be extinguished, or did you want the flame to simply not be."

"What?"

"Was it a positive thought, that you wanted something to happen, or a negative thought, that you wanted something undone?"

Everard tried to remember. "The second one, I guess."

Loretta grabbed his shoulders. "Think very hard on this last question. Were you focused on the flame itself, or the idea of the flame?"

Everard took a step back. "I don't know. What difference does it make?"

"Whether you're influencing fire or reality itself? It makes a huge difference!"

Everard understood why people were afraid of her.

"Loretta," said Jose, in a placating tone, "c'mon. If we get home before midnight we can put the kids to bed ourselves."

Loretta took a breath, adjusted her belt.

"I'm working tonight," said Loretta. "Sorry."

"No, it's okay," he said quickly.

Everard rubbed the back of his neck. Never fun to hear a couple arguing.

He'd never called Abby.

He checked his phone. He had service, but no missed calls. Not even a text. Ah geez. It was quarter to midnight. She'd probably be asleep. If the Burgesses had left him the hell alone, he could be next to her right now, rambling about the next hobby he wanted to explore. Aquariums weren't really something she could do with him. Maybe they could try sailing? He should at least send a text for her to see when she woke up.

"Which is it?" asked Loretta.

"Huh?"

"Did you deny the fire or that there was fire? The thing itself or the reality of it?"

Everard considered. "It was more the whole thing. I hate bullies, you know? And I saw how everyone was afraid of him—mainly because of that little magic lighter. I wanted the whole thing undone, especially that black fire."

Loretta said something under her breath in Spanish, a curse or a prayer. "One more question: how difficult was it?"

"Felt like shoving my way through really thick mud. You saw; I couldn't do it twice."

Loretta grunted.

"Is that good?" asked Everard.

"For who?"

"Um, me."

"Depends."

"Who else would it be good for?" he asked.

"Depends," she said again.

"On what?"

"You."

"Is she this cryptic all the time?" he asked Jose.

Jose shrugged. "Depends."

"You two are perfect for each other." Everard tucked his phone back into his pocket.

Loretta led them into the hall next to the amphitheater stage. She lit the way with a police-baton-sized flashlight. Everard didn't know where she'd been hiding it between her sweatpants and t-shirt.

They came to the fork that split off toward the slums and then the Junk Shoals.

"Hold on." Everard shined his light across the floor, looking for the Ruger. "Damn. Gone."

"Lose something?" asked Loretta.

"A bargaining tool." He followed her down the path he hadn't taken earlier. He relaxed some, realizing how tense he was. The image of the inhaling and exhaling patches of furry flesh in the walls stuck in his head. He stuck to the exact center of the corridor.

"Hey," he said, "what's in the walls down that other way?"

"Could be anything," said Loretta. "We're at the edge of the nook. The barriers of the Periphery can be weak in some places."

"Barriers between the Periphery and what? The real world?"

"You mean the world you know? Yes, in some places."

"And in others? What's on the other side of the barrier?"

"Other places."

"What she means to say," said Jose, "or I guess what she'd say if she was feeling helpful, is that the world you're used to - the Central Nook - still makes up the bulk of reality. Livable reality, anyways. The Periphery is the nooks that touch the edges of the Central Nook."

"Like other dimensions?" asked Everard.

"You don't talk to Jose," said Loretta.

"Maybe. Think of it like the reality you know is a big soap bubble. The Periphery is all the little bubbles clinging to its edges, both inside and out."

Everard touched the dark cement wall. "What's on the other side?"

"A headache if you expect things like distance and space to make sense."

Everard decide to reopen his Weird Periphery Shit folder. "Where are we going now?"

"You want to talk to the Burgesses, right?" said Loretta.

"They put the bounty on me. So yes."

"So we're going to the House of Burgesses. I'm looking forward to watching that meeting. We're just making one stop first."

She pointed her light to a wall, revealing a plain steel door. Everard wondered how many they'd passed in the dark.

She opened it without a key.

Everard followed the couple through into an alley. The humid night air rolled over him. Two story brick row houses stood on either side, which meant they were in a nicer part of the city.

"I'll be home in a few hours," said Loretta. She kissed Jose, who walked out of the alley, whistling.

She watched him go.

Everard rocked on his heels. "So, how long have you been married?"

"Don't ask me about my husband."

"Okay." The thing was, he actually wanted to know. From what he could tell so far, Loretta didn't live a conventional life. But she made her relationship work. Hell, she'd married the guy. Everard wanted to know how that was possible. Instead, he asked, "Should we get going?"

"In a minute."

Everard checked his phone. He typed a text to Abby. Hey, sorry about not calling. Let's talk tomorrow. Waffles?

Before he could send it, movement on a rooftop above distracted him. He put the phone away. Probably wouldn't get a response until the morning.

"Hey," he said, stepping between Loretta and the approaching figure.

It leapt down to a windowsill, then to the top of the fence at the back of the alley, then atop a dumpster. It moved gracefully, the impact of each drop transferred fluidly to the next movement.

"Loretta," said Everard, wishing he'd found his Ruger.

The intruder reached the ground silently, a dozen feet away.

Everard grabbed Loretta's shoulder to yank her around to see.

"He likes thinking he snuck up on you," she said. "Puts him in a better mood."

"Oh," said Everard. Yet another way to make a fool of himself.

"Who's this?" asked the stranger, walking closer. He was maybe six feet tall, slender but with some muscle. He wore skinny jeans, and a tight fitting white button-up shirt, with the top three buttons undone. He scratched his cheek, and Everard could have sworn he saw small claws withdraw under the guy's fingernails.

"Doesn't matter," said Loretta.

"Wait, I know you." The man sauntered close enough for Everard to see his eyes. His pupils were slitted, but widened as he looked Everard up and down. "You've been masquerading as my brother."

"This again," said Everard. "I'm guessing your brother is this Ailuromancer?"

The cat man crouched to see into George's carrier.

"Aren't you a finely groomed, flealess beauty? You must be an inside cat. Tell my brother hello." He laughed. "Pansy."

George meowed, sounding offended.

"That was a misunderstanding, Tom," said Loretta. "He just looks similar. He never claimed to be the Ailuromancer."

"I'm not Tom anymore. 'Shadow' is more mysterious, don't you think?"

"You're not a tom anymore?" asked Everard, immediately biting his tongue.

Shadow's claws extended, shorter than an inch, but sharp as nails.

George hissed, backed to the rear of the carrier.

Shadow relaxed and laughed. "You look like him, you've got the same sharp tongue. Are you sure you're not my brother?"

"Positive," said Everard.

"You do seem comfortable outdoors. But are you an outside, or a stray?"

"I don't, uh," Everard looked to Loretta for an answer.

"You're not a cat," she said.

"Right," said Everard, confused.

"Now that we're all acquainted," said Loretta, "maybe you can answer my questions?"

"When did you ask him anything?" asked Everard.

They ignored him.

"The outsides kept watch all day, the strays all night. Nothing to report."

"And you've still got eyes underground?"

"Yes, although I think Hokey Pokey's going to hate me if I keep sending him down there."

"You don't have someone there all the time?"

"Of course I do. Hokey Pokey's just there a few hours a week, and he's already mad at me for making fun of his name."

"For the next few days," said Loretta, "I want you to double your surveillance. And alert me immediately if anyone even looks at my house, Jose's office, or my children's school."

"Someone threaten your family again? You want me to get my cousin to deal with him?"

Loretta's tightened jaw twitched.

Shadow shrunk back from her impassive gaze. Gracefully, somehow. "I get it. You've got a more hands-on approach to things."

"Anything else?" she asked.

"Nope." He gave an exaggerated bow.

"Let's go, Everard." She opened the steel door, which definitely did not lead into the house of the wall it was on, and went through.

Shadow stopped him. "My brother won't care that it was an accident. Better stay out of his way for a while."

Piecing things together, Everard said, "If he doesn't go outside, that should be easy."

Shadow's wide smile revealed sharp canines. "I like you. You're much too clever to be spending time with insides."

George rowled.

Shadow lowered his voice. "But careful around that one you're with. She's always been somber, but the last few years she's seemed... miserable. And when dangerous people are that unhappy—well, don't get on her bad side."

Everard thought he might have already screwed that one up. "Uh, thanks."

He followed Loretta back into the dark, pulling the door shut behind him.

Chapter Twelve

Everard followed Loretta further down the dark corridor.

"The tomcat comment was stupid," said Loretta.

"I thought it was funny."

"Shadow didn't. You've already pissed off Undone Duncan and Inc. Do you really want the Ailuromancer against you, too?"

"The guy who thinks I'm pretending to be him? Yeah, I'm sure right now he's my biggest fan."

Loretta whirled on him. "You don't have the same laws protecting you down here. The Burgesses stop murderers and rapists and kidnappers, and nothing more. Someone decides to rearrange your face, no one's going to stop them."

"You stopped Bowman."

"I don't like Bowman. Point being, down here you find your own protection. Most join a faction."

"A faction?"

"Cabal, sect, group, cult, junta - whatever you want to call it."

"That's what the Burgesses are? A protection racket?"

"A community. People coming together who share a culture, or belief, or bent. The Burgesses all worship the Founding Fathers. Capitol Bohemia consider themselves artists, or at least connoisseurs of art. In the nineties, the Hexers, Hoodoos, and other factions of traditional cultural bents merged to form the Folkmeisters."

"And Inc is what? Businessmen who burn money?"

"No," said Loretta. "It takes a certain type of businessman to be invited to Inc."

"Let me guess. They have to be willing to give up everything?"

"Not exactly."

"Are there people who just look out for themselves?"

"Only a few who actually survive."

"Who are you with?"

"Nobody."

"Then what are you?"

"Tired."

He followed her back through out through the ampitheater, past shops that were mostly closed, and down another side street.

"The Mall nook doesn't connect to the Hall of Burgesses. We'll cut through the Central Nook."

They approached another cement foundation, a square, blank building from down here.

"That's not really the foundation, is it? There's no way it could support the building."

"Yes and no," said Loretta. "Neighboring nooks influence each other. The buildings of the Mall push their way into this nook. More or less. You couldn't just dig through to get here; you have to use one of the actual crossover points."

Around the corner of the foundation, a staircase rose up the side of the cement. Everard followed Loretta up the stairs. She opened a door at the top, and they stepped back into the world Everard knew.

It took him a moment to recognize where they were. They'd stepped out of a two story red brick building across from Folger Park.

Loretta hadn't slowed, so Everard jogged to catch up. "We're still going to see Bill Bill, right?"

She silenced him with an annoyed look. If that's how she wanted to play it, he was fine with it. He kept his head down, checking the shadows for movement.

They walked three blocks to the Capitol building.

"What, Bill Bill's a senator now?"

At the top of the stairs, Loretta led him off to the side of the veranda. He didn't notice the door until Loretta grabbed the handle. The door blended in with the white stone wall.

"This is it," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Through that door is the Hall of Burgesses."

"You're leaving me here?"

"I'm giving you a chance to go home."

Everard threw his hands up, exasperated. "That's what I want! Kinda hard to do that when there's a bounty on my head."

"I'm saying you may be better off running. Leave D.C. Start up again in the middle of nowhere. Fewer people, less chance of anyone being involved with the Periphery."

"I'm not running away." He didn't explain why, that he was afraid these freaks would use Abby or Liz to get to him.

"You obviously don't play well with others. In the Periphery, that'll get you killed."

"You're surviving."

"I'm different."

"How?"

"I can pay what it costs to go alone."

"What's it cost?"

"You're worse than my... worse than a five-year-old. Listen to me: either get out of the city now, or once you go through that door, you let the Burgesses protect you."

"They're the ones who got me into this!" Everard didn't want to join a group where crazy old George Washington impersonators would be in charge of him. But he also didn't want to have his skin replaced with carpet, or his head stomped in by men in suits with weird lighters.

It came back to Abby and Liz. If it was just him, he could disappear for a while. Maybe even figure out what all this Periphery nonsense was, and come at the problem when he was ready. But if Inc and Undone Duncan wanted him, they'd use the people he cared about to get to him.

Besides, he'd decided to confront Bill Bill, and he wasn't backing down from that now.

"Okay," said Everard. "I'll try not to piss off the Burgesses."

"Good," said Loretta. "Because I only get the bounty if you come willingly."

She pulled open the door and shoved him through.

"Wait, what?" Everard caught himself, but hesitated.

The Hall of Burgesses was gorgeous.

It was a bustling foyer ripped straight out of the 1700s. Stained and polished oak made up the floor, walls, and ceiling. Great arches led to massive hallways on either side of the room, and at the front of the room, an ornate desk stood in front of a smaller hallway that led to offices. Chandeliers lit the room in a wavering orange glow. Twelve-foot portraits of each of the past Presidents hung on the walls, starting with Washington and continuing with familiar faces until Monroe, then continuing with another dozen men wearing brass buttons, high collars, and ascots, ending with the old man Everard had seen in the amphitheater.

He pressed on the oak floor with his foot. It had a modern stain, but the planks were uneven. They'd been cut by hand, not by a circular saw. This wasn't colonial style construction; this was actual colonial construction.

People moved about the foyer, carrying stacks of paper or iPads, talking on cell phones, arguing, flirting, sipping coffee and energy drinks, just like any other night shift office workers in the city. The difference being that these particular office workers were all dressed like Revolutionary War reenactors.

"Where are we?" asked Everard.

"The Hall of Burgesses," said Loretta. "The nook that the House of Burgesses uses as their headquarters."

Some of the people noticed Loretta, but averted their eyes and quickened their pace.

"This place is amazing," he said, running his hand along a shelf built into the wall. "This looks like original materials. Where'd they find all this in such great condition?"

"I assume it was built here. They started work on the Hall before Washington died."

This was amazing. Sometimes you could find a piece this old in pretty good condition, but that meant that someone a hundred years ago had found it and decided to care for it. This was a massive foyer of original colonial carpentry. Everard wanted to inspect every inch of it, and then start down the hallways.

"Are they keeping it magically maintained, or what?" asked Everard.

"I have no idea," said Loretta. "Not really my area of expertise."

He snapped out of his fascination with the construction. "You're after the bounty, too?"

"Relax. Not to turn you in as a prisoner—just to talk to them. The Burgesses post rewards for people who bring them useful benters. Usually too cheap for my skillset. But you've got a rare bent. You're a rebellist."

"I'm not a... that thing."

"Rebel-yist," she said. "And maybe not. But I think you are, if you were telling the truth about denying the idea of the flame."

"If I am, how much do you get?"

She ignored his question. "This way. You said you want to talk to Bill Bill, right?"

Everard followed, admiring the room.

The Burgesses made a wide path for Loretta. Everard nodded hello. Most ignored him. They went down an arched hallway, portraits and candle lamps lining the walls.

Out of all the bizarre shit he'd seen tonight, they all thought he was some uber bizarre "rebellist." Everard had to admit, that was pretty amusing. Maybe he could use it to get everyone to leave him alone.

Everard followed Loretta through a doorway, into an office filled with bookshelves, maps, whiteboards, and a hoard of knick-knacks. His neighbor sat behind a desk at the center of the room.

"What took you so long?" proclaimed Bill Bill.

Chapter Thirteen

"Bill Bill," said Everard.

The overalls and dirty white t-shirt were gone, replaced by britches and a baggy, 1700s blouse, although they were equally dirty, maintaining his disheveled look. The wild, white, Einstein-meets-Doc-Brown hair didn't help. Several coloring books were spread across the desk, along with an assortment of Crayola crayons.

"You've got about two seconds to explain what the hell..." started Everard. "Are you coloring?"

"Wait, how'd you say you know him?" asked Loretta. She leaned on the wall next to a bookshelf filled with maps of the city.

"Adult coloring books," said Bill Bill. "All the rage right now. Has George eaten?"

"Yeah, he ate my sandwich," said Everard. The nursery rhyme illustrations on Bill Bill's desk were definitely not aimed at adults.

"Have you let him out to make his business?"

"No, I-"

"Better take of that," said Bill Bill.

"Just right here on the floor?"

"He knows where his box is."

Everard set down the carrier, opened it, and George ran out of the room, claws tapping on the hardwood floor. Everard almost felt sad watching him go.

"How do you two know each other?" demanded Loretta.

"Bill Bill's my neighbor," said Everard. "He tricked me into coming down here."

"We watch baseball games together," said Bill Bill.

Loretta rubbed her forehead. "So that means you already knew about him being a rebellist. And you convinced him to come to the Periphery. I should have realized that."

"That's right," said Bill Bill. "No bounty for you."

"He almost got himself killed in the Black Sheep. Picked a fight with the CFO."

Bill Bill chuckled. "Sounds like a rebellist, all right."

"I saved him," said Loretta. "Inc would have taken him. I brought him to you."

"Hey," said Everard. "Talking to them was your idea. And why's there a bounty on my head, Bill Bill?"

"There's not." Bill Bill switched from a green to a yellow crayon. "What would I do with your head? Might kill you, if someone brought me your head."

"Why's there a bounty on me, then?"

"Because I put one on you."

Everard wanted to strangle him. "Why?"

"You're a rebellist. I mentioned that during the last 'Nats game."

"No, you didn't. You spent the whole time yelling at the TV to let Bryce Harper pitch."

"He's got a mean curveball."

"He's an outfielder!"

Loretta interjected. "You've let him get you off track again. You have to direct the conversation when he's like this."

"You mean there's times he's not like this?" muttered Everard. "Bill Bill, put down the crayon and tell me why you brought me here."

"Oh I didn't bring you," said Bill Bill. "Gotta be your own choice. Otherwise, what's the point, right?"

Everard exhaled. "Tell me what's going on. Why'd you drag me into this place? I've been attacked three times now."

"You started the last one," said Bill Bill.

"Either way," said Everard. "Half these weirdos know my name, and the other half think I'm some guy called the 'Ailuromancer.'"

Bill Bill turned the page and started coloring Mother Goose reading to a circle of children. "I remember that. I did it. You look kinda like him, so I denied the aspects of your face that don't look like him. It's worn off now. Back to your boring face. You should grow a beard."

Loretta explained. "He must have done it to protect you. A lot of thugs will go after someone whose obviously factionless. But nobody wants to mess with the Ailuromancer."

"Undone Duncan's lackeys did."

"Almost nobody."

Everard leaned over the desk to take Bill Bill's crayon. "Why am I here? What's a rebellist?"

"You can deny what you don't like," said Bill Bill.

"Like with Bowman's lighter," said Loretta.

Everard mulled that over. He'd also made the Perforated Woman drop her awl, and made the skinning machine stutter. "I say no, and reality changes?"

"It's more complicated than that," said Bill Bill, "but that's about all I can say."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a rebellist, too. I tell you what to do, all of a sudden I'm the bossman, and your bent goes dead. Less authority, more power. More authority, less power. Can't be a rebellist if someone can tell you what to do. Can't be a good one, anyways." Bill Bill held out his arms like he was presenting Everard to Loretta. "But you! No boss, no parents, no wife. Even Uncle Sam can't give you orders if he doesn't know you exist."

"How'd you know about that?" asked Everard. "Or that I'm a rebellist? Wait, how'd you find me to start with?"

"You worked on my nephew's house. You've got that rebellist scent to you."

"What's that mean?"

"Benters can sometimes sense other benters," said Loretta. "Like how you could probably tell another carpenter by looking at him."

"I looked you up," said Bill Bill, "realized I couldn't look you up—good work, by the way—and thought, now there's a man who has issues with authority."

Everard shrugged. That was true enough. "Why now? I never did anything like this before this evening."

"Who knows," said Bill Bill. "My first time was when I was sixteen. Mr. President came out of the womb denying his mother was out of milk. That's why he's so fat."

Mr. President was even more frail than Bill Bill.

"And then there's you, and that makes all the rebellists we know about in the last century."

"You're telling me there's only three people like me?"

Loretta nodded. "There are a few with similar abilities, but only you three with your identical bent."

"And that makes me some kind of big shot in the Periphery? That's why Undone Duncan and Inc want me regardless of any bounty?"

"They couldn't pass up on the opportunity," said Bill Bill.

The chugging and grinding sound of the machine came back to Everard, along with the scent of engine oil and burning meat. He pushed it away. "So what are you getting out of this? What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," said Bill Bill, offended. "This is about helping you."

"And securing the Burgesses political authority," offered Loretta.

"I don't get it," said Everard. "Why does me being a rebellist help anybody? What are you hoping I'll do?"

"That's up to you," said Bill Bill.

"Which means you don't have to do anything," said Loretta. "So maybe consider not doing a thing. Because being a rebellist requires giving up your whole life. You don't see Bill Bill spending time with loved ones."

"Don't be so dramatic," said Bill Bill. "And how would you know, anyways?"

"I'm not interested in being a rebellist, or ever coming back to the Periphery at all." Everard pulled the ripped wanted flyer out of his pocket to inspect the photocopied picture of his face, and the text of half his name.

-erard

-rrison

And then handwritten but still photocopied:

other

"What's 'other' mean?" asked Everard.

"I didn't write that," said Bill Bill.

"Who did?"

"Not sure."

"What's it mean?"

"Probably better if Mr. President explains. He's the one who handled all that."

"Sounds like I need to talk to him, then. Where is he?"

"I like the sound of that," said Loretta. "Maybe he'll see it my way about paying the bounty."

"He's in a meeting," said Bill Bill. "Can't talk to him now."

"Come on, Everard," said Loretta. "Let's go interrupt some important people."

Everard followed her back into the hallway, Bill Bill following them both.

"Now hold on. The last time someone interrupted he yelled so much his face looked like a tomato." Bill Bill giggled. "Actually, I'll get a kick out of this. Let's go."

They passed a stairwell, which made Everard wonder again about the geography of this place. Which direction on those stairs was up? It didn't sound like the positioning of one nook had anything to do with another.

Ahead, the hallway stretched on as far as he could see. "How big is this place?"

"No idea," said Bill Bill. "I've only been about a mile down that way. After that, the floorboards get flimsy, and you bet your ass, you do not want to fall through there."

Fantastic. Even the nook with amazing carpentry was dangerous as hell.

Loretta threw open a door and walked through it. Everard and Bill Bill followed.

Chapter Fourteen

A vacant fireplace took up half of one wall. Black, reflective stone made up the back wall, writing carved into it but too small to read from where Everard stood.

Mr. President sat at the head of a table, with his attendant, Minnie, standing behind him. She leaned over the frail old man protectively, staring down Everard.

Seven other people sat around the table, only one dressed in the Burgesses' colonial style. Everard recognized Lucy, still wearing her red dress, and still looking nervous.

Everard flinched away from the man standing at the other end of the table. His sheer size made Everard think it was Undone Duncan, but this man had all his skin. He was built like those World's Strongest Man competitors: thick and solid, not bulbous and shiny like most gym rats. He wore a sleeveless shirt and jeans, making no effort to hide the shotgun holstered at his waist, or the ax strapped to his back.

He had the group's rapt attention, but lost it as Everard, Bill Bill, and Loretta came in.

"The barrier in east, uh, east..." he stopped. "Hey, Loretta."

"Hey, Howser." She nodded to him. "Do you mind if we interrupt for a second?"

Minnie scoffed. "Howser's briefing us on the Hunter's plan to put an end to the Boogeyman. You can't come barging in here like you're in charge. I don't care who you are."

Mr. President cleared his throat. "Minnie, do you not see Bill Bill? I'm sure he wouldn't disturb our meeting without a good reason."

"Eh," said Bill Bill. "I'm with these two."

The other Burgess—who looked half Mr. President's age, which still put him around 40—cleared his throat. "Perhaps you should control your party and actually act like a real leader."

The others around the table shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Mr President set down his pen and rubbed his gray eyebrows. "Bill Bill, when's the last time you denied your... mind slipping?"

"Yesterday," said Bill Bill, too quickly.

"How long has it really been?"

Bill Bill played with a crayon while he thought. "Last month."

Everard felt a buzz, the air being pulled in every direction at once.

Bill Bill twitched like he'd been shocked. Everard grabbed him before he could fall.

Shaking his head like a dog shaking off water, Bill Bill yelled, "Don't do that! If my mind feels like slipping once in a while, what's the big deal? I've been on this earth seventy-eight years already."

"I can't have you senile," said Mr. President.

"Why the hell not?"

"Better we discuss this later." He glanced at the other Burgess, who addressed the rest of the table.

"I promise you we're dealing with these issues internally. We're presently reevaluating our leadership."

"The hell we are, Bermuda," said Minnie. "You don't have the votes."

Bermuda slammed his tri-cornered hat on the table.

"If I could interrupt for a moment," said Loretta, "I brought this new rebellist, I want the bounty."

Mr. President looked at Everard like he was noticing him for the first time.

"No. Bill Bill found him."

"Fine," said Loretta. "My fee for investigating the booms just went up twenty percent."

Minnie opened her mouth, but Mr. President raised a hand to silence her. He stared impassively at Loretta.

Everard knew this kind of silent negotiation. He'd been in the same position a hundred times. The client would throw something new at him, so he'd adjust the bid. Then they'd get angry Everard wouldn't do extra work for free, and the client would silently calculate how expensive it'd be to end the project and hire someone else, and how long that would delay the project, and whether he even knew someone else who could do as good a job as Everard.

"A fifteen percent bonus once you stop them," said Mr. President.

"Deal," said Loretta.

"Now if you would excuse us," said Mr. President, "your job isn't the only disaster the city's facing right now."

"Actually," said Bermuda, "I'm sure everyone would appreciate an update on Loretta's progress. The booms are, after all, increasing in frequency. You have to wonder if they're building up to something."

Minnie impatiently cleared her throat. "The Boogeyman is what's currently on the agenda."

"We'll come right back to it," said Mr. President. "Loretta?"

Loretta crossed her arms.

Mr. President answered for her. "We're quite positive that Undone Duncan is causing them, but have reason to suspect he's being bribed or threatened to do so."

"You mean by Inc," said Bermuda.

"Loretta is investigating multiple leads."

"Are any of them about the nature of the booms?" asked Bermuda. "What they actually do?"

"I can answer that," said Everard. First time he'd ever made a room full of people each raise an eyebrow. Except for Minnie. She rolled her eyes that he was taking the meeting even farther off track.

"This is Everard Harrison," said Mr. President. "Our newest rebellist."

That garnered instant respect. Or least rapt attention.

"I'm not anybody's newest anything, but I saw some shit. A couple of those carpet-faces-"

"Reskinned," said Mr. President.

"Whatever. They grabbed me. Took me to Undone Duncan's hangout. There was this machine, looked like a fifty-gallon drum surrounded by a tangle of wires and tubes."

"The Perforated Woman's got all sorts of twisted machines," said Howser, the flooring creaking under his bulk.

"Anyways, when the Minutemen people showed up to break me out, one of the lackeys did something with the wires, and then a boom came from that barrel. Made me want to get away as fast possible. Forced the idea into my head."

"Are you sure you weren't just afraid?" Bermuda was unimpressed.

"Could have been the Perforated Woman's hypnosis," said a short plump woman at the table. "Not that I don't believe you."

Everard shook his head. "I've felt her do that, too. This was different. The Minutemen high tailed it toward the door, but I fought against the impulse. That's when someone let loose a hyena in my insides."

"There hasn't been a boom since this afternoon," said Mr. President.

"It was way down in that junk yard," said Everard. "But it was the same noise. Like a giant bass drum."

"That woman can twist your mind pretty bad," said Howser.

They didn't believe him. The respect dissolved. That's what he got for trying to be helpful.

"We'll ask Captain McIntosh, and Loretta will look into it," said Mr. President. "Mr. Howser, if you'd continue with what you were saying before the interruption."

Minnie raised her chin, satisfied.

Howser gave Everard a sympathetic shrug, an odd sight from the giant. "Like I was saying, the second ring of barriers will keep the Boogeyman trapped on the eastside."

Lucy cleared her throat, timidly cutting in. "That's where half the Folkmeisters live. I notice you're not forcing him into a wealthy part of town."

"Lucy, I promise you our choices are a hundred percent tactical," said Howser.

If these jerks were going to brush off what he said, then Everard would show them the same respect. He was only here for one reason, anyways. He balled up the wanted flyer and tossed it on the table.

Howser hesitated again.

"Throw him out," Minnie said through clenched teeth.

Mr. President took a breath, then said, "Mr. Harrison, I'm understanding how you've already earned the anger of half the Periphery."

Howser laughed, a deep, booming sound. "That's par for the course for a rebellist, isn't it?"

"Did you make those?" demanded Everard, pointing to the paper.

Mr. President pressed the sheet flat. "As is customary, we printed several and sent them to our allied factions."

"Who's that?" asked Everard.

Everyone at the table looked up at him.

"These are the representatives of the National factions," said Mr. President. His tone shifted to annoyed. "And two of the D.C. factions."

Bermuda cleared his throat and said, frustrated, "Our alliances with the No-Gos and Capitol Bohemia are as important as those with our National factions."

The plump woman whispered to Bermuda, "We know, dear."

"Thrilled to meet you all," said Everard. "Which one of you sent the two-tongued guy?"

"Jakes?" asked Howser. "He's been one of my Hunters even since he escaped the NSA. I didn't know he was moonlighting bounties."

Everard didn't want to imagine being hunted by this behemoth. "If I hadn't broken his knee, where would he have brought me?"

"Here," said Howser. "Jakes is a good man."

"A good man who goes after bounties," said Everard. "Do you know how hard I work to maintain my privacy?"

"Well now," said Bill Bill, "you've still got your privacy."

"I've got half of you underground maniacs hunting for me. And what the hell does 'other' mean?"

"Nothing to do with the Boogeyman," said Minnie, "which is what we should be discussing."

"Other?" Mr. President picked up the flyer. "Oh, it's ripped. That's not 'other.' Where's another flyer?"

Minnie made a scene of flipping through a leather folio until she pulled out a sheet of paper to slide it across the table to Everard.

It showed a full picture of him leaving his townhouse, and below were the words

Rebellist:

Everard

Harrison

Then the handwritten note:

Ryker's brother.

"Who's Ryker?" he asked, trying to think of where he'd heard that name.

"Oh, you don't know?" said Lucy, flashing a bright smile. "You'd like her."

"That's true," said Loretta. "She's got the attitude of a rebellist, even if she isn't one."

Everard remembered where he'd heard the name: the protesters who'd set off the fireworks earlier had played a recording that chanted "free Ryker."

"She's a criminal," said Mr. President.

"Why's it say I'm her brother?"

Howser, Loretta, and Bill Bill started talking at once, then the first two let Bill Bill speak. "She's not a criminal. Not by any of our laws, anyways."

"Not by any laws that matter," said Howser.

"She's not a fan of the NSA's involvement in the Periphery," said Loretta. "And she's pretty vocal about it."

"She's more than vocal," said Mr. President. "She's committed terrorist acts."

"She destroyed an NSA explorer outpost," said Loretta. "Which has probably saved dozens of people from being mutilated."

"Thrilling," said Everard. "But why's it say I'm her brother?"

Mr. President spoke over Everard's repeated question. "How many did she kill in the process?"

"Four," said the plump woman.

"Thank you, Fiametta," said Loretta. "How many of those were NSA agents, forcing Periphery denizens to explore the nooks beyond the Periphery?"

"Four," said Fiametta. "And I've set up funds for each of their families, as well as the poor souls they sent out there."

"Of course you have," muttered Loretta.

"That's a lovely story, really. But I just want you people to leave me alone." Everard repeated his question. "What's this mean, calling me her brother?"

They had different meanings for all sorts of words down here - bents, nooks, burgesses - he wanted to know what "brother" meant.

"It means you're her brother," said Mr. President. "You're siblings."

"What?" said Everard.

"You've never met your sister?" asked Fiametta.

"He was a foster child." Bill Bill shrugged. "His mother would have had Ryker long after he last saw her."

A faint boom echoed through the building. Far away - probably because they were inside this nook - but still recognizable as the same noise from earlier.

"They're happening more frequently," said Lucy.

"It's under control," said Mr. President.

Everard was miles past caring about the booms. He brought the conversation back to his concerns. "I don't have a sister."

"You're her spitting image," said Mr. President. "Minnie, do you have a picture?"

"Not everyone is as insulated from the booms as you," said Lucy.

Fiametta leaned over and patted Lucy on the shoulder. "Loretta said she'd take care of it, dear. Things will be okay."

"And even if she were to fail - which she won't," said Mr. President, "the NSA will step in if anything threatens the Central Nook. Your Folkmeisters - and everyone else living topside - will be fine."

Lucy looked distrusting, but placated.

Minnie pulled a tablet from her leather folio, swiped and tapped, then set it on the table.

Everard picked it up. The screen showed a photo taken from afar of a young woman, no older than 25, opening a door from the inside to let in a hooded figure.

"It's high res," said Minnie. "Zoom in."

"He's seeing her for the first time," whispered Fiametta, excited. "It's magical."

Everard pinched the screen to see Ryker's face closer up. He didn't remember what his mother looked like, but he did look in the mirror most days. Ryker's jawline had the same angle, her nose was the same shape, and her eyes the same pale green.

"She could be anybody." Even Everard heard the doubt in his own voice. They looked similar enough to be twins. "Why do you think she's my sister?"

"Let's call it a long range DNA test," said Mr. President.

Everard looked at Bill Bill, then Loretta. Both nodded.

He leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor.

A sister.

He tried to think about what that meant, but his thoughts couldn't examine the implications as the gravity of the fact itself kept seizing his attention.

"While he's coming to terms with his newfound family," said Mr. President, "why don't you continue, Mr. Howser? Our fine committee here all have various responsibilities to attend to."

"Sure. So again, the first barriers are already set. We've got him trapped in the city."

Everard stared at the image on the tablet. Had his mother surrendered her to the state as well?

"The second barrier will trap him on the eastside." He glanced at the Folkmeister. "I recommend you keep the lights on the next few nights. Third barrier in the southeast. Then on a 14th Street block, near Lincoln Park. A single abandoned shop, then a room, then a closet. Then he'll be nowhere but right there. A bullet between the eyes and he'll have nowhere to go."

"He'll fill the closet with copies of himself, won't he?" asked Minnie. "You'll need more than a single bullet."

"It's an expression," said Howser. "We're using C-4."

Everard zoomed in even more on Ryker's face. Was this what his mother looked like? For the first time in years, he wondered if she was alive somewhere. Did he have aunts, uncles, cousins?

"Do I have any other siblings?" he asked.

"Not that we know of," said Mr. President, then turned back to Howser. "Why are your requested funds so high?"

"Inversely ionized barriers aren't cheap," he said. "And you offered to help fund it. You're not backing out now, are you?"

"Of course not," Mr. President.

"Are you absolutely sure you know what you're doing?" asked Lucy.

"He damn well better be," said Loretta. "The frequency of the attacks hasn't dropped, but now instead of being worldwide, they're all in the city. That's a high cost for success."

"Odd to hear that from you," said Howser.

Loretta glowered but bit her tongue.

Everard wondered if Abby would want to meet Ryker. Did he even want to meet her? He'd spent most of his life choosing who he got close to. He'd always thought it was weird that most people just stuck with who they were stuck with. But now that he had the chance, what did he want?

"And anyways," said Howser, "these attacks would have happened anyways. All we're doing is keeping them here, with the end result of killing the Boogeyman once and for all."

"You mean all you're doing is turning poor folks' homes into a hunting ground," said Lucy.

"Yes," said Howser. "And I'm the Hunter."

Bermuda cleared his throat. "Lucy, I'll personally see to it that a squadron of Continental Regulars are patrolling the area."

"You'll do no such thing," said Mr. President. "The Hunters will be inside the area, and can provide ample protection. I've requested that the Minutemen position themselves nearby, to respond to any danger they sense."

Lucy rose. "My people's deaths will be on your hands." She pointed from Howser to Mr. President, finger trembling.

Everard set the tablet on the wood floor. He'd lived a comfortable life since setting out on his own, avoiding anything that might disrupt his privacy. It'd be cool to meet his sister, but who was she to him, really? He didn't know her. They'd been raised in different homes. Ryker didn't change why he was here.

Howser responded calmly. "We're trapping him as quickly as possible. The barriers will hold. Mr. President himself provided the highest quality materials."

"You're absolutely positive he can't copy himself outside the barriers?" asked Lucy.

"He doesn't copy himself," said Howser. "No one's ever completely killed him. He's literally multiple places at once. Not omnipresent, but multi-present, or something."

"Semantics," said Minnie. "Can you be sure he can only exist inside the barrier?"

"It's a major difference," said Howser. "But yes, as long as the ferromagnetic alloys are balanced properly, there'll be no more things going bump in the night. Well, one less thing, anyways."

Everard still wanted to get out of here, but one thing bothered him. "Those guys on the street were yelling 'free Ryker.' Free her from what?"

"She's been arrested for her crimes," said Mr. President.

"The NSA snatched Ryker off the street," said Loretta. "No judge, no jury. She just disappeared."

"Can you blame them?" Mr. President adjusted his ascot, his face getting redder by the second. "She's too dangerous. She'd have the entire courtroom eating out of her hand."

"That would actually mean something," interjected Loretta, "if the NSA gave any Periphery Denizens a trial."

"Is she a rebellist, too?" asked Everard.

"No," said Loretta. "The NSA wouldn't have been able to bring her in if she was."

"So where is she now?"

"Probably being forced to explore past the Periphery," suggested Lucy.

"No, she'd be a battery, wouldn't she?" offered Howser. "Too powerful to be wasted as an explorer."

"Which is what she deserves," said Mr. President.

"What's a battery?" asked Everard.

Minnie exhaled an exasperated breath, tossed her folio on the table, and dropped into a chair.

Loretta ignored the outburst. "Benters who provide power, like you might get paid to donate plasma. I thought you were leaving, what do you care?"

"I want to know a few things before I go."

"Al Qaeda gets sent to Guantanamo," said Howser. "Benters are forced to be batteries."

"What are they powering?"

Mr. President drummed his fingers on the table. "I'm afraid I have to agree with my advisor. We need to get back on topic."

"Tell me what Ryker is powering," insisted Everard.

Bill Bill waved a placating hand to Mr. President. "Our sources say Ryker's most likely powering a submarine somewhere in the Pacific."

"And these protesters want to free her?" He could sympathize with them. Being stuck on a submarine would be hell. But protesting drew attention to yourself. Better to keep your head down, altogether.

"The NSA's been overstepping their bounds," said Loretta. "A lot of people are already furious about the Watchers. Taking Ryker is the last straw. There's an underground movement against them."

"They're terrorists, and you're to report any information you find," said Mr. President.

"And the day I accept a contract to find them, that's what I'll do. But until that happens, I'll do what I decide, maybe even aiding and abetting Ryker's crew."

"Super exciting stuff," said Everard, "but if I understand correctly, there's no more bounty on my head. You won't be coming after me if I just walk away?"

"If we forced you to stay," said Bill Bill, "you'd be useless as a rebellist. There wouldn't be any point in you staying."

"And what about Undone Duncan and Inc? Will they still come after me?"

"I could maybe deal with that," said Bill Bill.

"Perfect," said Everard. "Name your price, and I'll pay it. That's very sad about Ryker, but how about one of you shows me to the exit?"

"She's your sister," said Loretta.

"Is she, though?" said Everard. "I've never met her. We didn't grow up playing and arguing and looking out for each other. Does sharing a parent really mean anything?"

"It means she's your sister," said Howser. "That's what the word sister means. A female sibling who shares parents."

"Then our one connection is a woman I never met. I'm going home."

Mr. President sighed and leaned back in his chair. He gestured to Bill Bill.

"What?" said Bill Bill. "If the man wants to go home, he can go home. The fact that his sister is chained up and plugged in on a submarine somewhere doesn't matter."

Everard ignored the jab. "Great. Where's the exit?"

"I'll show you," said Bill Bill. "Mr. President, beggin' your pardon about the interruption."

He ushered Everard out. Loretta joined them in the hallway, leaving the others to finish their meeting.

Chapter Fifteen

They walked back through the antique hallway to the stairwell, then headed down the stairs. Loretta started in the opposite direction, until Bill Bill said, "why don't you take the south exit with us?"

"Sure," said Loretta, after hesitating a moment.

Down several flights, Everard asked, "this is the quickest way?"

"Shortcut," said Bill Bill.

At each landing, a doorway opened into a similar hall. Wooden floors, candelabras on the walls. Everard tried to see down to the end of the hallways, but they all seemed to go on forever.

At the bottom of the staircase was a cement floor, with open steel doors.

It took Everard's eyes a moment to adjust to the dark scene through the doorway. It reminded him of old photos of makeshift hospitals. Bathed in a softly pulsing red light, eight people lay unconscious on cots, placed in front of chugging engines.

The smell of burning oil and citrus hit Everard like a wave.

"What are you trying to pull?" he demanded.

"The exit's through there," said Bill Bill.

"You expect me to believe that?"

A woman in overalls stood up from where she'd been crouched behind one of the cots. She had a stethoscope around her neck and a wrench in her hand. "New battery?" she asked.

"What?" said Everard. "Fuck no."

He stepped back from Bill Bill and Everard.

"This is your game, then? If I don't join your George Washington fan club, you turn me into one of them?" He pointed at the people in the cots.

"I don't understand," said the woman.

"Neither does he," said Loretta.

"We don't force anyone to be a battery," said Bill Bill.

"I should say not," said the woman. "What do you think we are? Everyone here is getting paid for their time."

"It's just shifts," said Bill Bill. "Like any regular job. They go home after eight hours, and get their paycheck direct deposited every two weeks."

Everard stepped into the room. On the cot closest to him lay a girl who couldn't have been more than twenty. She wore ripped jeans and a faded t-shirt. A thin wire wrapped around her forearm, tight enough to make little valleys in her skin. It hung slack between her arm and the engine behind her. Another tube - gray and slick, like a stretched out slug - was attached to her neck, stuck on with glue, or hooked directly into her skin. Actually, the red smear around it made it look more like a leech than a slug.

Everard stepped closer to inspect the engine. It looked like a newer, sleeker model of Undone Duncan's machine, except without the needles and razorblades. Pistons pumped smoothly while gears whirled. A clear sack held a glowing, translucent red liquid. Tiny splotches swam about inside, their movement irregular thrusts, like panicked jellyfish.

Thick, insulated wires and tubes reached from the machine to the center of the ceiling, to what Everard had first thought was a light fixture, but now realized was reservoir of liquid or energy.

Each machine had similar wires to the bulb, creating a canopy of buzzing energy and pumping viscosity.

"What are you taking out of her?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said. "Except positively charged ions, I suppose."

"It's harmless." Bill Bill spoke like he was waiting for Everard to say something.

The girl opened her eyes. They may have been a pale green or blue, but in the light of the room they reflected red. Her head still, her eyes jumped from Everard, to the woman, then back to Everard.

"She's awake," he said. "I don't think she can move."

"Of course she is," said the woman. "And of course she can't. Not until I unhook her."

"She lies here paralyzed all day?" he asked.

"I wouldn't say it quite like that."

"How would you say it?"

"Listen, young man," she said. "That girl is paid enough to support her family. She does two four-hour shifts, five days a week. There's an hour break in between to eat and to exercise. I've been managing this room for twenty years - I know what I'm doing."

"You've laid in her place?" asked Everard.

"That would be a poor use of my skills. I have the training to run the machines."

"Hmm," breathed Everard.

"This is better than you realize," she said. "Used to be people stayed attached for weeks at a time. We kept them alive with IVs."

"Some places are still like that," said Bill Bill. "Some places never unhook you."

"Nowhere around here," said the woman.

But Everard realized what Bill Bill meant. He looked at the girl, seeing the photo of Ryker instead, the face that was so much like his.

They'd said Ryker had the attitude of a rebellist, even if she wasn't one.

The girl's dull brown eyes closed, resigned to wait in stillness.

Everard would go crazy with a single four-hour shift. And somewhere Ryker was hooked up like this, never getting a moment of freedom.

He wanted to smash this disgusting machine. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to get outside and feel the open sky above him, the anonymity of the city around him.

But if he let himself get involved, there was a chance that he ended up plugged in and paralyzed like this. He'd risk that if it were Abby or—god forbid—Liz on that submarine. Not for anyone else.

Everard stepped toward Bill Bill. "Just lay out for me what you're saying. If I join your club you'll send your bluecoats to go get her? Because I'm still not interested."

"Bluecoats? Oh, you mean the Regulars. No, that'd be too obvious. You stick around long enough to learn your bent, and I'll put out an unofficial bounty for her rescue."

"No."

"Seriously?" said Loretta. "She's your sister. Imagine being drained like that all day."

"Then you rescue her."

Bill Bill scratched at his white stubble. He grimaced. "I sorta thought that would do it. Didn't peg you as so heartless."

"I'm not the one with the means to rescue her. I never asked anyone to drag me to this freakshow. I'm going home, sleeping for fourteen hours, and then I'm going to watch a damn baseball game."

And somewhere in there call Abby.

"Please," said the attendant, "take your argument outside. You're bothering the batteries."

"Gladly," said Everard, heading for the door. "Because I'm leaving."

"What about Undone Duncan?" asked Bill Bill. "Or Inc?"

Everard turned back around. "You said they wouldn't come after me."

"I said I could stop them."

"That's how it is? If I don't do what you want, you look the other way while I get skinned alive?" And what if he fought back. Would they go after the people he cared about?

"Why shouldn't I?" Bill Bill said it less like a threat and more like a giddy declaration of checkmate. "I don't even know you."

Everard was trapped. He couldn't go home if the Perforated Woman would just come after him. "What do you want?"

"Tell Loretta everything you know about the booms, and stay around long enough to learn your bent."

Everard had negotiated enough contracts to know an undefinable deliverable when he heard one. "Make it specific."

Bill Bill clapped. "There's the Everard I know and love."

"You just said you don't know me."

Bill Bill waved away his objection. He tapped his left knee. "My knee's acting up again. When you can deny my limp, we'll say the deal is done."

"How long will that take?"

"Impossible to say. Maybe a few weeks. You're practically living without authority already, so probably shorter. Denying a minor injury like this isn't too hard."

"He's trying to offer you your first taste," said Loretta, "to get you hooked."

"What do you say?" asked Bill Bill. "Do we have a deal?"

"No."

Bill Bill pulled at his wild, white hair. "What do you want?"

"I deny your limp, you make every Periphery freak leave me alone—not just the ones we mentioned. And any normal people the freaks might hire."

"I'm not a genie from an eighties horror movie. There's no secret trick with my offer."

"I'm not finished. Only reason I didn't cut town already is I'm afraid they'll go after a couple people I care about."

"I'll make sure they're protected," said Bill Bill.

"Not you. Her."

Loretta shook her head. "I don't offer protection services."

"I saw the whole world afraid to even talk to your husband. He's the most protected man in the city."

"You couldn't afford my rates."

"He can."

Bill Bill chewed on his lip. "Deal."

"I didn't agree to this," said Loretta.

"Name your price. This is a rebellist we're talking about. One I actually like."

"Fine. Minnie will blow a gasket when she sees the figure."

"You let me worry about that." Bill Bill offered Everard a handshake. "Are we straight, or are you going to throw in anything else?"

"Go ahead and put that bounty on rescuing Ryker." If Everard had all the cards, he might as well. He gripped Bill Bill's hand. "And I want something to eat. Your cat stole my sandwich."

Chapter Sixteen

INTERLUDE

The apex predator hesitates.

The threat from the southwest continues; the intruder from elsewhere still attempts to expand its territory, claiming the low city on the river that neither has claimed. The intruder must be repelled.

But from the northeast, something has followed.

The apex knows this scent: the father of an early morning meal so many decades ago. The morsel squirmed and convulsed on the apex's antlers; its blood left a tangy residue that pulsed when the father was near.

Only once has this patriarchal hunter drawn near. The apex, caught in a shrieking snare, wounded by the father's attack. Once it realized the true threat, avoiding the hunter was simple.

But now, in its sudden flight to counter the encroachment from the southwest, the apex has revealed itself, and the father has followed.

Above the open water where fresh mingles with brine, the apex senses its hunter ahead.

The lone figure stands on the shore. It waits.

The apex will not face the foreign intruder with this annoyance swatting at its hooves. It dives at the father, the force of a hurricane behind its wings.

The father raises its arms, aiming the favored weapon of the new, soft prey. A roar of light and sound misses the apex.

It leads with its antlers, razor tips poised to slash apart their target. The apex passes through the illusion, howls in fury. The trap springs, knives pierce its sides to scrape against bone. The apex rips them out, flings them into the trees.

The scent of the father is all over; he has spread himself along the bank, up the trees, through the mud. The apex thrusts his bats's wings down, itself into the air, relying on its vision and hearing to locate its target both hunter and prey.

A net of barbed chains envelops the apex, digging into its flesh. In cold fury it shatters the metal. Blood and links join the father's scent on the ground.

The apex rises and then dives, swoops along the shore to rise again. Circles, dives. Repeats. Brushes off attacks of spears, acids, bullets. Until the scent in the mud and trees grows stale, and the fresh scent announces itself, faint but distinct, beneath the water.

Triumph joining fury, the apex dives once more, the cool of the water easing its wounds. Its antlers rend, fling the father onto the mud already littered with blood and traps.

It catches intestines in its fingers, pulls.

The father screams, curses in one of the languages of the new, soft prey. He cries for his lost child, that meal from so many decades ago. The child's blood - now part of the apex's flesh - hears its name, answers in anticipation of reunion.

But the apex has no time to feast. It clamps its jaw on the father's throat, watches him release his lifeblood to the earth. It bursts back into the sky.

The foreign intruder draws closer to the city, breaking the unspoken agreement to leave it a buffer between their haunts. That will not be allowed.

Wounds already healed, the apex continues its journey.

Chapter Seventeen

A few minutes later, Everard sat across from Loretta in a dining hall. A massive fireplace took up one wall, thankfully unused, since the humidity emanating from the kitchen was already overbearing.

Waiters brought out plates of bread, meat, pickles, and cheese, all drizzled in vinegar. Everard devoured everything. D.C.'s obsession with artisan foods was good and all, but sometimes you couldn't beat good old meat and cheese.

Loretta questioned him about his run-in with the Perforated Woman that afternoon, and about what he'd seen in the Junk Shoals. She asked for details about the boom he'd felt down there, everything from the size of the barrel to what he meant by "hyenas ripping up my insides."

After the meal, he agreed it was safest if he didn't go home yet.

A waiter showed him to a guest room. It was a cross between a high-quality colonial bedroom suite and a military barracks. Eight bunk beds lined the wall, each with a cherry frame and the most comfortable mattress he'd ever felt.

The waiter apologized that the finer rooms were unavailable, since the Burgesses were currently hosting a dignitary from Wyoming, and those smaller chapters always brought along an overly large retinue to appear important.

Everard didn't care. Now that he was full, all he wanted was sleep. Besides, this place was pretty awesome. The bathroom even had a fresh toothbrush, razor, and phone charger.

And soon as Everard plugged his in, it rang.

He didn't recognize the number, but some irrational part of him thought it might Abby, so he answered. "Hello?"

"Everard Harrison."

Right away, he recognized Bowman's voice. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of asking how he got Everard's number. "I'm not buying you a new tie."

"You couldn't afford anything worth wearing. I'm calling to offer you a favor."

"Not interested." Everard opened a drawer, looking for toothpaste.

"I think you are. See, I did some digging, and it turns out you're a man of many secrets."

Everard shut the drawer. These freaks already wanted him because of his supposed ability. The last thing he needed was for them to find out about his living under the radar. At least, he hoped that's what Bowman meant. "What do you want?"

"To sit down and talk. The CEO and I have a proposition for you."

"Why do half you freaks not even have names?" asked Everard. He tapped his fist on the counter. "And why would I be interested in anything you have to offer?"

"Because you want to keep your secrets safe."

"Fuck you." Everard ended the call. He leaned over the sink.

That was stupid. He should have stayed on the line longer, found out what Bowman actually knew.

The prick just had to phrase it like that. "Keep your secrets safe." Now Everard didn't know if Bowman was talking about Everard's false identity, or Abby, or if he'd somehow found out about Liz. If he was threatening either of them, Everard couldn't let it stand.

He checked the time. One-thirty. He couldn’t call Abby until she woke up, but then what would he tell her? The best he could do would be to tell her to lock her doors and get ready to call the police. Abby had lived in D.C. her whole life, and not always in the east end. Her locks would already be tight, and she already knew how to recognize potential danger.

Liz, on the other hand, loved meeting new people. She'd never been robbed, exactly, but she'd willingly handed over her birthday money because a stranger asked for it. Everard needed to warn her to be careful. She wouldn't mind being woken up.

He hesitated. Maybe Inc didn't know a thing about Liz, or even about his false identity, and this was a trick. What if they'd bugged his phone somehow? It'd never left his pocket, so it'd have to be some weird Periphery trick, but that didn't sound so far fetched.

Then again, if they could magically tap into his phone, they already knew half his secrets. It was worth the risk.

He texted Liz. You awake?

He walked out of the bathroom and went to turn off the lights. The lightswitch was taped over, with a note "Keep Lights On Until the Boogeyman is Contained."

Not that he'd be sleeping tonight anyways. Too much racing through his mind.

His phone buzzed with Liz's response. Yes!

He sat down on the most comfortable mattress he'd ever felt. The tag read "Blessed By the Hagiomagi of Saint Rose."

Liz responded again. Skype?

Everard opened the app and called her. However they were connecting to the cell networks in this nook, it was strong enough for video calls.

The call connected, and Liz's breathing came through, but the screen was still black.

"Is your lamp on?" asked Everard. "I can't see you."

Liz laughed. "Oh, whoops."

A lamp clicked on, bathing her in orange light.

"Actually, you should probably sleep with that on tonight." She was outside the city, but it couldn't hurt to be safe.

"My head hurts too much." She spoke slowly, each word requiring heavy focus.

"Please."

"I don't want to, Everard."

It'd taken him over a year of visits to get her to start calling him Everard. Now that she lived in a group home, none of her housemates or the nurses knew he'd ever been called anything else.

"Is that why you're still awake?" he asked. "Getting bad headaches again?"

"Julie took the lavender candle you brought me."

A decade later and she was still getting bullied. "I'll bring you another one. Do you have any Tylenol in the kitchen?"

"I don't like pills." Her motor skills had never fully recovered. Swallowing pills was tough for her. "I want you to come visit again. I want to show you the picture of a flower I took."

He'd been down there two weeks ago, when he'd started the Fairfax job. Her home was a few miles farther south, in Prince William. "I will. Soon."

"Tomorrow?"

"Not tomorrow. Maybe next week." Not until he knew no one would follow him. "Listen, I need you to do me a favor."

"I don't want to get out of bed, though."

"This'll be easy, I promise."

"Will you come visit?"

"Maybe next week."

She raised her voice. "No. Tomorrow."

Reasoning with her when she got upset rarely worked. It was all about emotions with Liz, although Everard figured that was pretty much true of anybody. "If you do me this favor, I'll come down as soon as I can—I think next week—and we'll go to Yankee Candle and buy you lavender for your headaches, and you can take pictures of the shelves. We'll get another big one printed off for your wall."

"I want a picture of the European ones. I like the red and purple."

"So can you do me a favor?" He felt like a dick, since he hadn't addressed her frustration that he wasn't coming tomorrow; he'd only made her think of how happy she'd be when he finally did make it down there. But this about her safety, so maybe it was okay.

"Fine, Everard."

"Look out your window and see if there's any cars."

The view on his phone swept around Liz's room. It went black again.

"See? Only Mr. Rick's truck." Mr. Rick was one of the nurses. The group home was an old donated farmhouse. If anybody was out there, they'd stick out like a sore thumb.

"It's too dark," said Everard. "I can't see. Look out all the windows. Do you see anybody?"

"Everyone's asleep," said Liz.

"Please check for me."

She shushed Everard and slipped out of her bedroom, peeking through living room and kitchen windows. "I told you. Nobody," she whispered.

Everard relaxed. This mattress was amazing. "Thank you. I'll come visit as soon as I can. We should both try to get some sleep now."

"Okay." Liz looked down, bit her lip like she always did before saying, "I love you."

Everard inhaled. Exhaled. "We're friends, Liz."

"Best friends?"

"Definitely."

The injury couldn't touch the sincerity of her smile. "My head feels better. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

They ended the call.

Despite the godly mattress, Everard couldn't sleep. He kept seeing flitters of holes across the walls, but he knew his mind was playing tricks on him, because those same walls kept shifting into the gaping maw of the reskinning machine.

More than once, as his eyes closed, he felt a leech-like tube hooked into his neck and draining him of energy.

His world had increased infinitely in size and possibility, but it was those simple images that clogged his mind.

Even imagining his own bed brought no comfort. His home wasn't a fortress. It was standing in an open field and inviting skinless men or sociopathic suits with magic lighters to come kill him. Or whatever it was they wanted to do with him.

The world was a bizarre place. He already knew that. He'd never experienced such a sudden, massive shift in perception, but it surprised him how quickly his mind was accepting it. D.C. had a dark, other-dimensional underworld that he'd never heard of. But so what? The surrounding states had so many counties he'd never heard of that he found out about new places all the time. Any given day, he could turn down a new road, and discover some corner of reality he never knew existed. Was it such a big deal that now some of those corners didn't take up space the same way he was used to?

Hey, believers talked about Heaven and physicists talked about string theory. Half the world already rejected the "what you see is what you get" version of reality.

Still, he wasn't sure when he'd sleep again. Heaven and other dimensions didn't necessarily include women with holes in their skin or little girls with extra legs poking out the small of their back.

An hour passed before Everard realized his problem. He was trying to reason with his frenzied mind, rationally discuss these new threats. That didn't work for Liz, and it wouldn't work for him.

He asked himself what he was feeling, the same way Mr. Rick told him to ask Liz what she was feeling when she got upset.

Sure, there was fear. But that wasn't what bubbled to the surface.

He was depending on Bill Bill to keep him safe. Even once he finished his part of the deal by figuring out whatever trick would get rid of Bill Bill's limp, it would still be up to the old man to keep Inc and the Perforated Woman away from him.

He felt frustrated and weak. He was back choosing between two awful options—lets these freaks tear down his private life, or depend on Bill Bill to protect him.

All he could do was hope Bill Bill was more competent than the social worker who said he'd protect Liz from that high school bully.

That frustration took over, squashing unsettling images and thoughts, and Everard finally slept.

Everard woke to darkness. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was, and a few more to convince himself that he hadn't dreamed everything. He was still in his clothes, and this wasn't his bed. It was all definitely real.

It shouldn't be dark, though. He'd left on the bathroom light, but now it was off. Either it was on a timer, or someone had switched it off. He checked his phone. It was plugged in, but the charging indicator said the battery was dying. The power was out.

His bladder screamed at him, reminding him why it'd woken him up in the first place.

Everard sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed onto warm floorboards. Heated floors. He guessed it wasn't all original construction after all.

A bed creaked somewhere in the dark, far at the end of the room. Everard hesitated. Another guest must have arrived since he fell asleep. They did say this was the only room left.

He stood and opened his phone's flashlight app, but the whole thing powered down before the light turned on.

"Shit," he whispered. His phone hadn't charged. The power must have gone out.

Groggily, he stumbled toward the bathroom, feeling his way along the wall. The power being out triggered some alarm in his mind, but he wasn't awake enough to know why. He was still trying to separate dreams from reality.

He opened the bathroom door silently - it was hung perfectly level - and found the toilet. He sat to avoid splattering the seat with blind aiming. Relieving yourself when it's about to burst was probably the best feeling in the world.

Something furry brushed against his legs.

Everard jolted backwards and kicked out. So much for not splattering the seat. His feet connected with the soft weight of cat, which hissed and swiped at his ankle.

"George?"

Everard's heart pounded. That woke him up. "George, is that you?"

The cat responded with a meow that could have been George's, but Everard couldn't really tell a cat by its meow, and it was still pitch dark. Maybe-George meowed again, this time from the bathroom doorway.

"What do you want?" Everard fumbled around for the toilet paper, then cleaned himself up. He pulled up his pants to follow Maybe-George into the bedroom. "There's no way I can feed you. I can't see a damn thing."

The warning bell in the back of his mind suddenly made sense. The worried people in the square, the Folkmeister woman complaining in the meeting, all received the same warning: stay out of the dark.

Everard backed against the wall, held onto his bedpost. He tried to think of everything he'd heard them say about the Boogeyman last night, but he hadn't exactly been paying attention.

Stay out of the dark.

Why was the power out? Were those poor idiots plugged in downstairs not enough? Had something happened to them?

A bed creaked again. Closer this time.

Maybe-George meowed, scratched at the door.

Everard took a deep breath. Running was the quickest way to get a predator to pounce, whether it was a mugger or a mountain lion. Or the Boogeyman. All that mumbo jumbo about being a rebellist, maybe he could handle this.

All he had to do was deny that the lights were off. Or maybe that the power was off. And what had Loretta said about focusing on the idea, and not the actual thing?

The lights are not off. The power is not out.

Something slid along the floorboards.

He said it aloud. "The lights are not off. The power is not out."

He got that sense again, of a thick mist around him, holding back his will.

Something exhaled under his bed. Everard jumped away. "The power is not out!" he yelled.

Maybe-George scrambled across the floor, and then muffled hisses and winces came from under the bed. The room went silent. The cat meowed again at Everard's feet, bit his pants leg and tugged.

Chuffed breaths from under every bed.

The cat bit Everard's ankle and ran, meowing and hissing. Everard followed the furious furball, sprinting into the hallway, banging his knee on the doorframe. The hallway was just as dark.

"Hello?" he called. No one answered. This wing had been pretty abandoned when they'd taken him down here last night.

The cat growled at him, but it was headed farther down the hall, not back toward the offices and main hall. "I'm not going that way," said Everard. This hallway had been as infinite as all the others. He ran the way he'd came.

His socked feet slapped on the oak floors. Behind him, a low chorus of whispers rose.

There'd be a double doorway ahead, where this wing broke off from another hallway. If he could make it there, maybe the power would be on.

Something brushed his neck. He grunted and stumbled, found his footing just in time to smash his face against a closed door. He cursed, grabbed at the handle. It didn't budge. He leaned back at kicked hard at the door next to the handle. Earlier it had been oak doors on brass hinges, but in the dark they felt like a reinforced steel barrier.

His jaw throbbed. He'd really been moving when he hit that door.

The chorus of whispers slowly approached, filling the black space behind him. Everard turned around. "The power is not out. The lights are not off."

The heavy mist bore down on his mind.

He pounded on the door. "Help!"

Maybe-George hissed, rowled, walking toward Everard down the middle of the hallway. The whispers parted, darted in and jerked away. The cat winced, whined, snapped its jaws.

It was clearing a path for Everard. "Okay. We'll go your way." He ran through the whispers, covering his head like it was a rainstorm.

The assault was behind him again, and an open hallway ahead. He sprinted past the bedroom. The cat ran behind him, spitting with anger. It winced, and its rowl was cut short. Everard's heart dropped, until he heard Maybe-George again ahead of him, scratching at a wall.

Everard slid to a stop, expecting to find an exit. Instead, he found a fusebox. "I knew you were smarter than you let on." He yanked open the panel, felt around to find the switches, then frantically switched them off and back on.

Cold fingertips pressed against his cheek. Spindly fingers closed around his neck.

He found a section of switches flipped opposite as the rest, and switched them on. The lights hummed to life. He whirled around to an empty hallway, the Boogeyman banished.

George stood at Everard's feet, along with two other cats. An unmoving cat lay sprawled thirty feet back down the hallway.

George stared Everard in the eye, an intelligent glare that blamed him for the other cat. If Everard had listened the first time, they wouldn't have had to fight through the Boogeyman.

"I'm sorry," said Everard.

The cat's shoulders slouched and the intelligence left his gaze. George rubbed his cheek against Everard's feet. Whatever had saved Everard's life, he didn't think it was George. Either way, it was gone now.

Everard sat on the floor, leaned on the wall below the fusebox. He wasn't moving from this spot until he was sure no one would switch them off again.

Chapter Eighteen

Everard woke to the echoing click of a door unlocking.

He stood, his back protesting the last few hours spent leaning against the wall.

Down the hall, Bill Bill wrestled with the second door. "Did you lock this?" he called.

Everard stretched and headed toward his neighbor. "No, but somebody did. And they switched off the power."

The old man got the second door unlocked, then propped them both open. "Bad night for that. Howser doesn't have the Boogeyman contained yet."

"I noticed that."

"Oh." Bill Bill hurried to Everard like a worried kindergarten teacher on a playground. He grabbed Everard's chin and jerked it around while inspecting him. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"That thing attacked me, that's what happened." He pointed to the dead cat on the floor. "George and friends saved me."

"George is just a cat. The Ailuromancer must have stepped in. That's not good." He crouched by the feline corpse and picked it up, stroked its head. Glops of drying blood matted its fur. "Poor Daisy. She was Mr. President's favorite."

"Who's the Ailuromancer? Why is it bad he saved my life?"

"A rotten choice for your temporary mask. I shouldn't have let my mind slip that much. If he's keeping you alive, it's probably so he can kill you himself. Or maybe he wants a new best friend; there's no telling with him. But he never leaves his house, so never visit, and you'll be fine."

"Perfect."

"He's hardly our biggest problem right now." Bill Bill leaned in close and whispered. "If someone switched off the power, then they were trying to, you know..."

Bill Bill dragged his finger across his throat. "I'll look into it. Don't you say a word to anyone. The NSA aren't the only ones employing watchers."

"You said you could protect me," said Everard. It made him feel dirty.

"In my defense, I said I'd protect you from those other guys. I never mentioned the Burgesses."

"We agreed on everyone."

"Let's not get in a fuss over details. It won't happen again. Scouts honor."

"Can you even keep your half of the bargain? Can you actually get Inc and Undone Duncan to leave me alone?"

Bill Bill stepped back and adjusted Everard's shirt. "That's a most definite yes. But first things first, today you start learning to be a rebellist. Go take a shower - you still smell like the Junk Shoals. I'll have someone wash your clothes and bring you breakfast. Your instructor will be along later."

"You're not teaching me?"

Bill Bill shook his head. "I'm an experienced rebellist and the wizened old man who brought you here. You see me as an authority."

"I don't give a shit about the Burgesses."

"Either way, you can't learn from me. Authority makes your bent weak. Or nonexistant. We're bringing an outside contractor." Bill Bill stroked the dead cat's head. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to break some bad news to Mr. President."

Everard stepped out of the shower to find his clothes he'd just taken off already washed and dried. Even his boots had been scrubbed clean.

They'd also left a tray on the nightstand with a mug of beer, a bowl of yellowish oatmeal, and a plate of thick flatbread smothered in butter.

He dressed and devoured the food. The porridge had a healthy infusion of maple syrup, and it was all surprisingly filling.

A scream from the hallway interrupted his meal. Everard ran outside to find Mr. President's attendant, Minnie.

She crawled from her hands and knees back to her feet. Sweat dripped down her flushed forehead and cheeks. She didn't have her colonial jacket - just the white blouse she was quickly buttoning.

"The hell are you doing?" Everard ran to her, helped her to her feet. "Why'd you scream?"

"Oh, I-" she coughed, her jaw twitched to side. "I mean-"

"Spit it out."

She fell back to her knees, then hopped to her feet to finish with the buttons. "Sorry about that. Some water went down the wrong tube."

"Why'd you scream?"

"I tripped."

"And you choked on water. From where? You don't have a bottle or anything."

"It was from a minute ago. You know how water sticks in your throat once it gets there."

"Sure. You look like you ran here."

"I did. Um, a message from Mr. President."

"I'm listening."

The double doors opened again, and Everard whirled to see a skinny, late-teens kid standing in the doorway. Everything about him - his posture, his dress, his unkempt hair - said relaxed. "Dude!"

Minnie cleared her throat. A dry sound. "I've come to let you know that your teacher is here."

"You're the guy who was looking for Bill Bill and the bluecoats!" said the teenager. "I guess you found them."

Everard suddenly recognized him. The kid from the hookah bar. "Hey, it's Brian, right?"

"That's right, you remembered. Cool. I'm here to train you. Where's little man?"

"What? Oh, the cat? I guess he's around here somewhere. He wasn't mine."

"Now that you two have been introduced, I'll be on my way," said Minnie. Her boots tapped on the wooden floors as she left.

"Weird lady," said Brian.

"Not the weirdest I've met recently," said Everard. His half-appeased stomach growled. "You mind if I finish my breakfast?"

Back in the room, Brian sat on one of the beds. He unwrapped some brand of organic energy bar Everard had never heard of and took a bite. "Burgess food is gross. You want one of these?" he laughed at his own voice, muffled from his mouthful of granola and nuts.

"No, thanks."

Brian tossed him one anyways. "I heard you almost got your ass handed to you last night."

"Which time?" Everard pocketed the energy bar.

"The one the Ailuromancer saved you from."

"How'd you hear about that already?" Everard opened his breakfast.

"All the wigs were talking about it when I came in. Well, they were talking about the Boogeyman attacking, but I thought it was more interesting that the Ailuromancer would save someone."

"Any idea why he'd do that?"

"Who knows. Dude's weird." Brian shrugged. He ate the last of the energy bar. "You'll be fine, though. People don't fuck with reality tweakers like rebellists. I mean, once those reality tweakers figure out their bent. Obviously."

"Reality tweaker?"

"Benters who tweak reality. There's only, like, seven in the whole city. Most benters just convert one type of energy into another."

"How much of that do I need to understand to deny Bill Bill's limp?" He felt weak even asking that. It'd been fifteen years since he'd depended on someone else for safety. "None, I guess. Why?"

"That's all I want to do. Then I'm going home."

"You're the boss. Gonna dissapoint the Burgesses, though."

A deep boom sounded, muffled by being inside. Everard braced himself, anticipating a repeat of the pain he'd felt after the boom in Undone Duncan's hideout. It didn't come.

Brian peered at the ceiling. "Last one was last night, wasn't it? They're getting more frequent."

"Is that bad?" asked Everard. Maybe Mr. President was right. Maybe whatever that wired-up barrel had done was different from what the city was hearing.

"Couldn't tell you," said Brian. "I figure the Burgesses will handle it."

"I'm suprised you're one of them. You don't dress like them."

"I'm not," said Brian. "I usually chill with Capitol Bohemia, so really I'm not even a National."

"National?" asked Everard. He finished the rest of his breakfast beer. Maybe there was something to be said for colonial food. "The Burgesses are nationwide? How many people is Mr. President in charge of?"

"No, not like that. He just runs the Burgesses here in D.C. There's Burgesses other places, but they're pretty different. The National factions are still mostly local organizations, they're just the ones that are all 'ra ra America,' like the Burgesses, the Minutemen, a few others. Or the ones whose bents come from all over. Like the Hagiomagi." Brian patted the mattress. "People worship saints everywhere."

"If you're not a National, what are you?" asked Everard.

"Capitol Bohemia is technically one of the D.C. factions."

"Groups who like the city better than the country?"

"Eh, not really. Just groups that started here, and aren't really anywhere else. The NoGos, the Outsiders."

"Inc?"

"Yeah, they're sort of the head D.C. Faction, but they're assholes."

"Then why stick yourself with them?"

"Politics. In the Machinist Revolts during the eighties, the Burgesses wanted to force the Machinists out of the city, and Inc wanted to deal with them once and for all. The loose friendships based on the ideals or history of the factions became official alliances. When the dust settled, they'd divided themselves into two groups - the National factions and the D.C. factions. But since that all cooled down, a lot of us are pretty chill with both sides. Like Capitol Bohemia has an official alliance with with Inc, since a while ago we were mostly about the D.C. art scene. But now with the Internet, art comes from all over, you know? So we've kinda ironed things out with the Burgesses. That's why I'm here."

"To train me."

"Yep. The Burgesses asked for a favor. Capitol Bohemia sent me and my sister. You can't learn from anyone who knows what they're doing, or who's part of any faction leadership. Pretty much, the Burgesses had to get someone who would just barely agree to train you. Capitol Bohemia's relationship with the Burgesses is pretty new, and barely exists. No way you'll see me as el jefe."

"That's true," said Everard.

"Hey now," said Brian. "That's supposed to be like when a girl says she's not pretty, and you tell her she is."

"I'm sorry. You're pretty, Brian."

Brian laughed. "Shut up. Come on, let's get started. My sister's already in the gym."

"Whatever you say," said Everard.

"With that attitude, this is gonna take forever."

The hallways of the Hall of Burgesses were more active now than last night. People dressed in colonial garb moved around carrying papers, chatting, checking their watches. Some of the women wore bonnets and dresses with lots of lace, but plenty wore the same jackets and knee-length britches as the men.

Everard glanced in any open doorways they passed. One room was a chapel, with wooden pews facing a stained-glass window depicting the signing of the Constitution. Or maybe it was the Declaration of Independence.

In another room, people jogged on treadmills, or lifted weights, or held yoga poses in the corner.

Everard followed Brian down several flights of stairs, and into a wide hallway with walls of painted cinderblock instead of stained oak, and lit with fluorescent lights instead of oil lamps or candelabras.

They passed a room that looked like either a pawn shop or a small museum, with shelves covered in tools, cookware, sabers, muskets, and other junk that belonged in a Colonial Williamsburg warehouse. Inside, the Burgess from the meeting last night who'd been arguing with Mr. President wandered around, dusting shelves.

"That's Bermuda," said Brian. "He won't let me touch anything. We're down this way."

Brian stopped at double doors, but the hallway continued on, like all the others. Everard stood on his toes to see farther. Tile floor and cinderblock walls, stretching into a oblivion. He couldn't tell at what point it became dangerous.

Brian pushed open the doors, the click of the handle echoing inside.

They entered a gymnasium, three basketball courts side by side. The polished and painted floor reflected the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling.

There was also a crater in the middle of the right court: a layer of shattered wood, a layer of busted concrete, and then a pit of dirt. Several burnt patches decorated the courts, and a spot on the cinderblock wall where the cement had melted and dripped down before resolidifying.

"Is this where they played in Space Jam?" asked Everard.

"I don't know," said Brian. "That movie came out before I was born."

Everard suddenly felt old. "But, I mean—Space Jam." He wasn't sure what to make of Brian. He looked like any other skinny-jeaned hipster with overly styled hair and a band t-shirt (Everard didn't know who Rubblebucket was, but they had to be weird). Brian's demeanor was slightly different, though. The irony of the hipster personality was there, sort of, but underneath Brian seemed to honestly be this happy. Or maybe Everard just couldn't comprehend this level of irony. You never knew with hipsters.

"Took you long enough." A woman somewhere between Brian and Everard's age stood up from where she'd been leaning against the wall, fooling around with a portable speaker. She looked about as different from Brian as you could get. A pastel sundress, hair done up nicely. "You must be Everard. I'm Renae."

She shook his hand, firm and confident.

"You two are siblings?" asked Everard.

"Yeah," said Brian. "Hard to tell, though, since I got the good looks. And the brains."

Renae didn't even roll her eyes. "Are you going to get to it, or what? I'm teaching a class later."

"So you're both training me?" asked Everard.

"He's training. I'm putting out any fires." She motioned to a dog curled up, asleep in the corner.

Everard didn't ask.

"Uh, yeah, that's another thing," said Brian. "I'm better at talking about my bent than I am at actually using it."

"Another reason why you get to train me."

"Yep."

"All right," said Brian. "Let's try this out."

Renae handed him the speaker. He turned it on then thumbed through his phone. "What kind of music are you into?"

"I, uh, just whatever, I guess," said Everard.

"Cool, I'll pick something out."

The song started with little bursts of a synth melody, then broke down into a bouncy, cowbell infused B-52s imitation.

"These guys are called Architecture in Helsinki," said Brian. He bobbed his head to the beat.

"Can't you put on something that's not annoying?" asked Renae.

"Sorry," said Brian. "I lost my One Direction album."

"That's what you get for listening to it so much." Renae went back to her phone.

"So," said Everard, "what are we doing, exactly?"

"You gotta turn off the music. With your bent."

"How do I do that?"

"Just think about it, and then be like, no."

"I thought you said you were good at talking about this."

"Yeah, about my own bent. But dude, I don't know yours. You gotta figure it out on your own."

"What's your bent? You said you convert energy or something?"

"Check it out." Brian's swaying turned to a full blown dance. Not anything choreographed, but like he was getting into a concert.

Bits of light manifested in the air around him, oranges, sky blues, pinks, appearing in time with the beat of the song, then swimming toward him in patterns that matched the melody.

As each bit of light touched him, Brian glowed brighter.

The volume of the music wavered as he borrowed its energy, but grew steady again as he held it inside himself.

The light condensed around Brian's fingertips. His arms went loose, his dancing simulated a wave to pull the pastel glow from his fingers up his shoulder, rolling with his body down his other arm, then up into the air, where the balled-up light exploded into a firework, thousands of tiny points of light forming a smiley face. The face reared back and shook with silent laughter before dissipating.

"Whoa," said Everard. He felt a genuine smile. Finally, crazy Periphery shit that wasn't trying to kill him.

"Yeah, he's got a real career in pyrotechnics," said Renae.

Brian ignored his sister's jab. "Dude, that's my favorite one. I've been working on something kinda delicate, though. Watch this." Brian moved to the music again, the notes converting to light then converging on his body. This time, he reached upward and four long, thin bars of light extended outward, then spun like helicopter rotors. Brian lifted off the ground. He tilted at too sharp of an angle, and the blades pulled him to the side. He let go. The spinning lights shot toward the corner of the ceiling, crashed into the steel beams and cinderblock with a noise that contained the synth and cowbells of the song.

Brian had landed on his butt. He stood up, brushing of his pants and laughing. "Crazy, right?"

"Yeah," said Everard. "Want to trade?"

"No way, man. Gotta be happy with what you got. Anyways, I'd be too afraid of messing things up if I had a rebellist's bent."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm just messing with music. Sound waves and light and all that. Reality benters like you or Loretta mess with the fabric of the universe and shit. It's tricky stuff."

"What's Loretta?"

"Programmer."

"What's that?"

"Dude, one thing at a time. You gotta figure out how to stop the music."

"But you haven't told me how."

"I can't! Even if I could, you probably couldn't, because then I'd be in charge of you."

"Rebellists can't ask for advice?"

"I don't know. I think the rules change as you get going, since you can ask for advice without seeing the other person as in charge. But right now you don't know anything. Anyone who tells you what to do is gonna be like a teacher."

"So how did the others learn?"

"Beats me. I learned from my sister, and from a whole ton of dancers. There's around thirty of us, just in D.C. But you're the first rebellist for fifteen years. There's only like three of you anywhere. We don't know as much about how your bent works."

"Fantastic," said Everard.

"But Bill Bill and Mr. President figured it out, and they're not any smarter than average. So come on, try to stop the music."

Everard focused on the speaker, imagining the soundwaves pulsing out of it. He felt that thick, mental pressure again, squeezing against his will and forcing it still. No.

The music kept on.

"It didn't work," he said.

"Nope," said Brian. "Try something else."

Everard tried thinking of the music itself, the speakers, the batteries inside, but didn't even make the music stutter. This new sense distracted him. It was like feeling cold, only through some part of him he hadn't known existed until yesterday. And only if "cold" also enveloped you like a wet blanket. Whatever it was, he felt it every time he tried to use his bent.

He wandered the gymnasium, trying to stop the music. He thought about what he'd done earlier. The Perforated Woman had dropped her weapon, Undone Duncan's machine had stuttered, and Bowman's lighter had gone out.

Each time he'd been scared for his life. But fear hadn't been enough to stop Undone Duncan's machine.

The song changed to a new band, a drifting tune with a catchy baseline, about diving for emeralds. Brian danced around, playing with lights in the air like someone might fiddle with a pen.

After he'd put out Bowman's lighter, Loretta had grilled him about exactly what he'd had in his mind. It was the idea that mattered.

Everard closed his eyes, listened to the music. He focused on the sounds, then shifted to just the thought of them. Not this music, but the concept of this music. Then, with all the will he could muster, he denied it. A solid needle of will darted through the cold, mental mist.

The song wavered, then continued strong.

"Hey!" said Brian. "Looks like you're doing it."

But what had he done? When he tried to think about the difference between the thing and the idea of the thing, it didn't make sense. He didn't want to stop the idea of the music, he wanted to stop the actual music.

"Whoops, that's a problem," said Brian. He stood over the speakers. "Renae?"

Renae sighed and put away her phone. She whistled, and the sleeping dog in the corner hopped up and trotted over.

Everard came over to the speaker. The basketball court was made of three-inch boards of polished maple, creating a pattern of parallel lines. Around the speaker, those lines were now swirled in irregular circles.

"What happened?" asked Everard.

"Fallout from your bent," said Renae. "Reality tweakers tweak reality. You don't control it perfectly, there's side effects."

The dog approached the speaker.

Everard jumped back. "What is that?"

It had the legs and body of a black lab, but its head was that of a furry sucker fish. Its jaw turned down at the end, its mouth a flat, round hole.

"Cleaner," said Renae. "This one's name is Rowdy."

Rowdy excitedly found the whirled spot on the floor, nosed the speaker aside, and pressed his mouth against the wood. He slurped, loud and wet.

"Explorers found them in the nooks beyond the Periphery centuries ago. They grabbed a few, domesticated and bred them," said Renae. "Make sure Rowdy's around when you're practicing your bent."

"Nobody said anything about side effects," said Everard. "What if Brian had been standing closer?"

"Then that would have hurt," said Brian. "But I wasn't. Keep going."

"Could Rowdy have fixed you?"

Brian looked at Renae.

"Probably not," she said. "There's other ways to repair fallout, though. The science freaks at Roundrock have a machine that does it. Of course, you screw up too much, space and time get all twisted, and it takes years to repair. That's why we're starting out small."

Rowdy moved away, sniffing the floor for more fallout, leaving behind perfectly parallel lines.

"Wonderful," muttered Everard. "And I'm supposed to deny Bill Bill's limp?"

"Yeah, kinda weird that's what he chose," said Brian. "Must have a lot of faith in you."

Renae snapped her fingers for Rowdy to join her back by the wall. "Or he thinks you'll wait until you know you won't hurt him. Maybe he's trying to make you stick around longer."

"He chose the test. That's on him," said Everard.

Brian turned the music up, continued his own practice. Everard kept trying to focus on the idea of the speaker, the soundwaves, the battery, each with similar results. A tiny spear of his stubbornness pushed through the mist. The music hiccuped, but didn't stop.

"I'm only kind of doing it," said Everard.

Brian let his light show disappear. "I don't think it works like that. You either do it or not. Like Yoda." He laughed at his reference. "Only instead of getting rid of emotion, you have to get rid of any thoughts that someone is in charge of you."

"I don't get it."

"I mean I think you've got the technique down. Supposedly, it's not that hard, once you know what you're doing. Like riding a bike, except you don't scrape up your knees, and there's no neighborhood bullies to steal it."

"You lost me."

"Those jerks stole my bike. I was only seven."

"We're talking about my superpowers."

"Yeah right," said Brian. "Don't stay up waiting for the Avengers to call. Best case scenario you're on like the B-team for the Teen Titans."

"I'm twenty-nine."

"You know what I mean. What was the question?" Brian stared intently at nothing, like he was figuring out a tricky math problem. "Your bent. I got sidetracked. Rebellists don't really have to learn to use their bent, or deny things, as they like to say. They just kinda realize they can do it. The tricky part is that the strength of what you can do is determined by how much authority people have over you."

"A second ago you said it was how much I think people have authority over me."

"Yeah."

"So which is it?"

"I don't know. Both? Maybe there's not really a difference."

"Shouldn't you know these things if you're supposed to be training me?"

"Nope. The less I know, the less I'm the bossman."

"Or the less I'll think you're the bossman."

"There you go," said Renae, not looking up from her phone. "Someone's catching on."

"I don't know who has authority over me," said Everard. Bill Bill was right, his life seemed like it was set up to do this. No boss. No close family. The government thought he was dead. His business paid taxes and still owed the bank for his townhouse, but it was incorporated—completely separate from Everard. He could walk away from it any time he wanted.

"I think it's like, anyone who could tell you what to do. Or, not like give you an order, but if they asked you to do something you didn't want to, you'd probably do it just because they asked."

"I can't do favors for people?"

Renae put her phone in her pocket. "That's not what he said. If you'll do what someone says just because they say it, then they're in charge, right? You can still do things for people just to be nice."

"But if I felt like I had to do it, that'd be a problem," finished Everard. Last week he'd gone to a Thai place with Abby. He didn't even like Thai, and Abby knew that, but he loved the little half smile she got when she knew he was doing something just for her. He still needed to call her.

"Hey, shut up," said Brian. "You can't just tell him these things."

"You already knew that?" asked Everard.

"No, but she can't just tell you."

"This doesn't make sense," said Everard.

"That's because we're guessing," said Renae. "We don't know for sure. Actually, some people think different rebellists have different specific requirements."

Everard exhaled. How long was this going to take?

"Let me try again," said Everard.

"Is there a song you hate?" asked Renae. "Maybe that'll help."

"I've never had strong opinions on music."

"He understands that all music's good in its own way," said Brian.

"Turn on that crap on your shirt," said Renae.

"Rubblebucket's not crap," said Brian. "Listen."

He thumbed through his phone. The song started with trumpets and then exploded into base-heavy dance pop.

"That's kinda catchy," said Everard.

"You're as bad as him," said Renae.

Everard tried denying it anyways. He held the idea of the music in his head, but kept getting distracting by thinking about Abby. Did letting her plan their Saturdays give her authority over him? What if he finally said the word "relationship" out loud? The discomforting thought came to him that maybe he couldn't deny Bill Bill's limp with Abby in his life.

The floor rumbled. Dust fell from the ceiling.

"Another boom?" asked Everard. "That was really fast."

"No," said Reneae, looking up from her phone. "That was something else."

Brian turned off the music. "The whole world wants to get their hands on you, but I didn't think anyone would be dumb enough to attack the Hall of Burgesses."

"Attack?" asked Everard.

The building shook again.

Renae put her phone in her pocket. "And here I thought this'd be a babysitting job."

Chapter Nineteen

Another rumble, this time Everard could point to the direction it came from.

"That's not the booms," said Brian. "What is it?"

"Explosions," said Renae.

"What would the Burgesses be blowing up?" asked Everard.

"It's not them," said Renae. "Someone's coming in."

"Who?" demanded Everard, wishing he hadn't lost the Ruger. "Inc?"

"They'd never attack directly," said Renae. "Come on, let's get to somewhere safer."

She pointed at the corner. "Rowdy, stay."

The sucker fish dog whined and sat on the floor. Renae led them into the hallway. Another explosion, louder this time.

"Why would anyone attack directly?" asked Brian, running behind Everard. "The bluecoats will wipe them off the map."

"The prize must be worth the risk." She looked at Everard. "A new rebellist, can't defend himself yet? How could they pass that up?"

"This is getting old really fast," said Everard. "If it's not Inc, who is it?"

"Undone Duncan," said Renae.

A swarm of holes played across Everard's mind. "He'd come himself?"

"There's plenty of gangs that unofficially report to him," said Renae. "It'll be one of them."

An explosion went off, the sound of it echoing down the stairwell ahead. "Looks like we won't be hiding," said Renae.

"Shit," said Brian. "Who do you think he sent?"

"I don't know. Either someone expendable or someone who'd get the job done." She stopped in front of the colonial pawnshop. "Everard, you get in there. See if you can find something to protect yourself with. Brian, turn on something we both like."

"Let's see." Brian's hands shook as he searched through his phone.

Everard stayed in the hallway. "I'm not running away."

"Congratulations. But unless you figured out your bent during our fun little jog over here, you should still go in there and pick out something shiny to hit the bad guys with."

"Oh," said Everard. "I can get behind that." He ducked through the doorway.

The room smelled of copper, leather, and dust. Steel shelving held piles of old tools, weapons, cookware.

Bermuda jumped out from behind a counter, pointing a short musket at Everard. His colonial garb looked ridiculous over his gut.

"Whoa, I'm not here to hurt you," said Everard.

"Of course you're not," he said, staring down iron sights. "If you were, that cannon would have ripped you apart with thirty pounds of grape shot."

Everard noticed the cannon in the corner of the room, a six inch barrel on thick wagon wheels. "So maybe put the gun down," he said.

"Not until you leave. Those Inc bastards aren't after me or my restorations, but you're Mr. President's new rebellist, aren't you? Could be they're after you. Best you find another place to hide."

"I'm not Mr. President's anything. I don't want to hide, I want a weapon."

"Nothing here you can have. Get out." He pulled back the lock on the musket.

Everard finally had a chance to fight back, so he wasn't going to leave here without a weapon. Especially not because of some coward antique collector. He looked around for something he could use, but it all looked rusty and useless. On the counter was a flintlock pistol, with a smooth, stained wooden handle, and a polished brass barrel.

"I'll shoot you if you don't get out."

"They'll still come for me if it's just my body." Could be true, Everard didn't know. He walked to the counter, staring the man down right back up the sights of his musket, and took the pistol.

"Don't touch that."

"Where's the ammo?"

"You don't even know what it is. Put it back. You can have something else."

"Doesn't need ammo, does it? What's it do?"

"It's a gun, what do you think it does?"

"Let's see." Everard aimed the pistol at a wooden mannequin and pulled the trigger. A muffled cacophony erupted from the barrel, jolting Everard's wrist with the recoil. It sounded like a tornado inside a soundproofed room. The mannequin flipped backwards, smashing into a shelf and then rolling to the floor. The invisible shot had punched a dent into its chest as big as a croquet ball, six inches deep. And this was some kind of ironwood. An inch or two could stop a high caliber bullet.

"Fancy," said Everard. He rubbed his ear, impressed it wasn't ringing.

"You leave that here," demanded Bermuda.

Everard ignored him to rejoin Brian and Renae in the hallway.

Three bluecoats had showed up, each bloodied. One's arm hung limp at her side, another had purple bruising in a ring around his neck.

Brian's speakers thumped with the beats and repetitive melodies of club music. Both he and Renae pulled glimmers out of the air in the time to the bass, and drew them to themselves with the melody. Renae's specs of light were more defined than Brian's, less blurry.

The bluecoats aimed their short muskets at the open doorway to the stairwell.

Heavy footfalls echoed down, accompanied by excited whoops and screams.

"Who are they?" asked Everard. "Who's coming?"

"Lynch Mobbers," said Renae.

"Real messed up bunch of assholes," said Brian. He brushed ceiling dust off his shoulder, hand shaking. "This racist named John Haw got a bunch of them riled up, blaming everything bad on all the post-1950 social change. Now they pretty much do whatever he says."

"Doesn't sound so bad," said Everard.

"There's a lot of power in hate." Renae pointed to the flintlock. "You figure out how to use that thing?"

"Point and shoot," said Everard.

"Good. And good luck explaining to Mr. President why you chose that particular pistol."

Before Everard could ask what she meant, the bluecoat with the bruises started barking orders, his voice raspy. "You two dancers handle the ones in the air. We'll focus our fire on the ground."

He pointed at Everard. "Watch our backs. Use your bent to deal with ropes."

"I don't-"

"Use the pistol," said Renae.

Everard wanted to ask they meant by ropes, but time ran out.

A figure cloaked in a white sheet swooped out of the stairwell. Three more followed, torches in hand, leaving trails of smoke that slowly rose and dissipated. One dove at Everard.

He aimed his pistol, and then Brian tackled him.

The pistol went off, punching a dent in the cinderblock wall.

"Don't let them near you." Brian stood, joined his sister.

A cross of flame burned through the tiled floor where Everard had been standing only moments before.

Everard tried to aim at their attackers, but they moved too quickly.

To the electronic rhythm that pulsed from Brian's speakers, a braided lash of pink and orange light sprung out from Renae's hand, wrapped around the ankle of one of the flyers, and yanked him to the floor. He swung his torch at Renae, but Brian knocked it out of his hand with a loose burst of brightness.

The music waxed and waned with the energy they pulled from it.

A bluecoat put a musketball in the Lynch Mobber's head. Everard's ears rang as red stained the white sheet.

"Focus on the doorway," yelled her commander.

The rest of the attackers took advantage of their distraction, at least twenty of them marching in. They wore clean, pressed slacks and button-down shirts, with their hair shiny with wax and combed straight. They looked like the anti-desegregation crowds from photographs in history books who screamed in black kids' faces. With their leather loafers and horn-rimmed glasses, they'd pass for a crowd of hipsters if they weren't armed with torches, pitchforks, and a few rifles.

Renae took down another KKK wannabe. The sheet fluttered off, revealing another sharply dressed man.

Everard gave up trying to hit the fliers, and aimed at the people on the ground instead. He'd never shot anyone - before yesterday, it'd been years since he'd even punched someone - but it turned out to not be too complicated. Point and pull the trigger.

The burst of muffled sound hit a pitchfork-weilding Lynch Mobber on his shoulder, spinning him into another attacker. His howls about his arm added to the chaotic noise already in the hallway.

A burst of musketfire dropped three of the mob. The bluecoats weren't muzzle-loading their weapons; they had some kind of semi-automatic muskets. Everard only wondered about that for a second, then he understood what the bluecoat had said about ropes.

A Lynch Mobber pointed at the wall. From the spot he pointed to, a rope shot out, looping around a bluecoat's neck into a noose. His face turned purple as he hacked at the rope with a knife.

"Where are you, rebellist?" shouted the commander.

Everard didn't bother trying to use his bent. He aimed the pistol and fired at the rope. He missed the first time but smashed it apart on the second, freeing the bluecoat to his heaving gasps.

The precise light-whips of Renae's graceful movements swung and missed at the last two fliers, who were nimbler than the others. Helicopter rotors made of green and gold light spun toward them, almost filling the hallway. One flier dove beneath the spinning blades, but Brian's imprecise attack crashed into the other, singeing the sheet and knocking him against the ceiling. He fell the twelve feet to the ground. His skull cracked against the tile, audible even with Everard's ears ringing.

Another gunshot - sharper than the muskets - roared in the hallway, followed by a splattering on the tile. A bluecoat fell, the back of his head gone, the bottom brim of his tricornered hat smeared with blood.

Everard took down another Lynch Mobber.

Renae grunted and then was rolling on the floor, putting out the flames that had already burnt a black cross against her body. Brian launched another spinning blade, but it fizzled out as the music died. A blast of fire had melted the speakers.

A rope burst out from the stairwell, through the mob, grabbing the commander around the throat. Everard couldn't get a clear shot at it. He fired wildly, knocking back another two mobbers. The bluecoat clawed at the rope. It went taut, yanked him into the crowd.

Everard imagined the noose, tried to deny it. "No!" he yelled. But nothing happened. He caught a glimpse of the commander being lifted up out of sight in the stairwell, and then he was gone.

The final bluecoat, the woman with the limp arm, fired a barrage of curses to go with the shots from her pistol. The advancing mob silenced both with a pitchfork and club.

"Start singing," winced Renae, leading them back.

Brian sang Happy Birthday, practically shouted it.

Everard wondered why he'd pick that song, until Brian waved to Everard to join him. It was one of few songs everyone knew.

Everard sang, firing at the Lynch Mobbers. He couldn't stay on key, but apparently that didn't matter too much.

Renae danced with exaggerated movements. As she pulled lights from the air around her, Everard's lungs tightened. He forced himself to keep singing, even while her bent drained his energy.

Three bits of light shot out from her fingertips, hitting rifles in the mob. Each exploded, and Lynch Mobbers hands turned to broken bone, blood, and sinew.

Renae stopped dancing. "Run."

They all three took off down the hallway.

The Lynch Mobbers sprinted after them.

An explosion of black powder deafened Everard.

He looked over his shoulder to see a mass of blood and broken bodies, and a dozen four-inch pockmarks in the wall across from the storage room. Bermuda had turned his cannon outside.

It wasn't enough, though. At least ten Lynch Mobbers still stood, and more were emerging from the stairwell. A couple went into the storage room, but most kept on down the hallway.

"Keep singing," ordered Renae. She breathed deep, wincing at the burn down her chest and stomach.

Everard and Brian continued wishing themselves happy birthday, but they sang more weakly as they ran. Renae pulled the energy inside herself, but didn't attack.

"Where are we going?" breathed Everard between bars. Bill Bill had warned about going too far down these halls, suggested the floors might break and drop them who knows where.

"I don't know," said Renae. "Maybe there's another stairwell. Or an exit."

There wasn't even another door as far as Everard could see. Only cinderblock and tile.

"Stop!" yelled Renae.

Everard slid to a halt. Inches ahead, thick cracks permeated the floor. The tiles grew transluscent, hinting at a writhing darkness beneath.

"We can't go any farther," said Renae.

The Lynch Mobbers drew closer. The bald man with the cross burned into his forehead pointed at the ceiling, and a noose wrapped around Renae's throat. She twisted fluidly and a thin blade of light cut the rope.

He pointed again, another rope jerked her to the side, and she went limp.

Everard fired over and over. Smashing in faces, breaking arms, collapsing chests. But the pistol would only fire so fast, and the Lynch Mobbers were almost on top of them.

Brian was over his sister, hissing her name. "Look at me. Come on, look at me!"

Everard had never thought about how he'd face death, but now was determined to go kicking and screaming, clawing out eyes and biting off fingers until they killed him. Whatever happened, he wouldn't be dragged back to Undone Duncan.

His rage took control and he charged the Lynch Mobbers.

A newcomer raised a rifle.

"No," said Everard.

The rifle's hammer clicked down on an empty chamber.

Everard fired once more, crushing the burned face guy's head in, and then grabbed the barrel of the pistol, raising it to use as a club.

He knocked aside a pitchfork, smashed the butt of the gun into a Lynch Mobber's temple, then the entire mob collapsed.

They cursed and yelled at each other, but as much as they tried to stand, they fell right back down. One raised a pitchfork to throw at Everard, and it slipped out of his hand.

Mr. President and Bill Bill strode down the hallway. If God's avenging angels were Revolutionary War generals, this was what they'd look like. Fury burned in their eyes. Even Bill Bill's eternal grin was missing, replaced with tight lips and a shifting jaw as he ground his teeth.

The flier swooped back into view, flinging a cross of fire from his torch. Mr. President faced the flame. It dissipated, and the flier fell from the air, sliding along the tile to stop at Everard's feet. Dead eyes stared at nothing.

A gunshot echoed in the hallway. A Lynch Mobber had managed to pull his trigger. He collapsed with the same empty gaze as the flier.

A squad of bluecoats in swat gear - kevlar vests, helmets, and riot shields over their uniforms - ran in and cuffed the surviving Lynch Mobbers, who still couldn't find their balance. The bluecoats literally dragged them away.

Everard watched it all, sitting with his back against the wall. Brian sat next to his sister, holding her lifeless hand against his cheek, shaking with sobs. Everard considered going to him, but what could he say? He didn't know how to handle things like that.

Mr. President pushed the scarred face guy's head with his boot, looking into his face. "Did they really think they'd be successful?"

"Someone offered a reward worth the risk," said Bill Bill. He stepped to Everard's side and helped him to his feet.

Brian looked up. Tear streaked cheeks and puffy eyes didn't fit his personality. "You can fix this, right? Deny that it happened?"

"I'm sorry." Bill Bill ran his hand through his wild white hair. "It doesn't work like that."

"Deny it! Her neck's broken. Think about that and say it's not. Isn't that what you do?"

"I could fix her neck. But if I tried to deny that she was..." Bill Bill searched for the right word, "that she was gone, it wouldn't work. I'd break reality before I brought her back. Wherever her spark went, it's out of my reach."

"Ah, geez," moaned Brian. "How am I going to tell our parents?"

Bill Bill crouched next to Brian, rested his hand on the kid's shoulder.

Everard was glad Bill Bill had some instinct for situations like this. Because between the murdered woman, the dead Lynch Mobbers, and the weeping young man, Everard didn't know what to do at all.

Chapter Twenty

Everard stayed to watch the Burgesses clean up the bodies.

The fluorescent lights added a washed out paleness to all the color in the hallway, even the blood spatters.

Two men in their forties—whose similar noses and chins said they were brothers—took special care with Renae, dabbing the blood and dirt off her with a cloth, and then gently placing her inside a body bag.

They took less care with the Lynch Mobbers, stuffing their corpses in bags, stomping them down until the bags zipped closed.

They picked up the rifle Everard had denied was loaded. Instead of wood and iron, it was now a thin rod of brittle brick.

"One of those fish dogs is in the gym," said Everard.

"Don't worry about it." The brothers threw the rifle in a bag. "It's getting tossed."

Down the hallway, a team collected blood samples off the wall, while another team worked behind them, cleaning with bleach and mops.

Brian watched from the corner, sitting with his arms around his knees.

It had been twelve years since Everard felt grief like that, but time didn't dull all memories. He tried not to think of all the other families grieving right now. Those three bluecoats all had parents, siblings, maybe spouses and children. Maybe he wouldn't call Abby. Just let it end, so he could go on enjoying life without all the pain these people felt.

Bill Bill had said the current count was fourteen dead: ten bluecoats, three civilian burgesses, and one Minuteman who'd showed up with a team to help. Everard wondered if it was either of the two who'd already saved him from Undone Duncan.

Bill Bill and Mr. President supervised from down the hallway. Mr. President argued in hushed tones with his aids. Bill Bill butted in here and there, but grew bored and walked over to Everard.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Should have seen that coming. Everyone's been too chickenshit to directly attack us for the last twenty years, but I should have known they couldn't pass up an attempt at the the new rebellist."

"Don't apologize to me," said Everard.

"I know. Renae was a good woman."

"Look at him," said Everard.

"That's how most people react to losing a sibling."

"Don't go there," said Everard.

"It's relevant."

"Don't. I'm here, aren't I? You won. Stop arguing about it."

Bill Bill picked up an extinguished torch. "Do you see why I want you here?"

Everard couldn't believe the question. "So I'll attract people who want to kill me?"

"How quickly did Mr. President and I put an end to this attack?" He hefted the torch, feeling out its balance.

"What did you do, exactly?" Everard again saw dead, empty eyes as the flier crashed to the floor.

"Something I hate doing, but had to be done."

"You denied their lives?"

"No, that wouldn't quite work. Too conceptual, so it would have more fallout. If you're ever in a kill or be killed situation, you deny their heartbeat."

"I'll keep that in mind." He reached for the torch, and Bill Bill gave it to him. "How'd they do all that? Fly, and throw fire, and make nooses appear out of nowhere?"

"A lot of power comes from hate," said Bill Bill. "Especially when it's a riled up crowd all hating the same thing. Some of the Lynch Mobbers have bents that tap into it."

"And the others? The guys just carrying weapons and yelling?"

"Just your garden variety asshole. Nothing special about them, except they like what the gang stands for, and John Haws convinced them to join."

"If you know about them and you're so powerful, why haven't you dealt with them yet?"

"It's not that simple. Undone Duncan offers protection to many of these gangs."

"So deny his heartbeat."

"There's ways to shield yourself from bents—even reality bents. We'd have to go to war with him, and we can't afford that."

"Looks like Undone Duncan thinks it's happening anyways."

"I'm sure he'll deny involvement in hiring the Lynch Mobbers, just like Inc will deny bribing Undone Duncan."

"What's the point of the Burgesses, then? I thought you were all about keeping people safe?"

"We've more been roped into that responsibility," said Bill Bill. "We come together out of a mutual belief."

"Like the Lynch Mobbers," said Everard.

"Sort of the opposite, but yes, similar," said Bill Bill, ignoring the jab. "We all pray to the Founding Fathers, but there's only a few who draw power from it."

"You and Mr. President?"

"No, we're rebellists. Our involvement with the Burgesses is based on our beliefs."

"But the Burgesses have their own version of the bald guy with the cross burnt into his forehead?"

"Nothing that violent. Our benters can read a document and know the writer's true intent, regardless of how confusing the words. And there's a few we have lobbying Congress. Not because of what they can say, or how much they can bribe, but because of the aura of inspiration they give off. Good old American rebellious patriotism. Loving your country while not trusting the people running it."

"That's why rebellists are always with the Burgesses."

"Rebellists have always had a complicated relationship with the Burgesses."

After the Burgesses carried away Renae, Brian came and sat next to Everard.

"One minute she was making fun of my music," said Brian, "and the next she was gone. How's something like that happen so fast?"

Mr. President joined them, his attendant Minnie at his heels. He looked down his nose at Brian. "I want you to know we'll do everything it takes to bring both the Lynch Mobbers and Undone Duncan to justice."

Everard cut in. "What about the guys in suits? Aren't they the ones paying Undone Duncan to do their dirty work?"

Mr. President answered without looking at Everard. "That hasn't been proven, and it's not the assumption we're working with."

Bill Bill cleared his throat, chose his words carefully. "At some point, don't you think we have to accept that Inc's goal is more aggressive than just winning political power?"

"They're not going to beat us at politics," said Minnie.

"They already are," said Bill Bill. "And now they're trying to beat us with violence. You think the people will trust us to protect them when we can't even protect ourselves from a common gang?"

"That's enough," said Mr. President.

"I don't think it is," said Bill Bill. "And it's not going to be enough until the CEO turns the people against us so much that they'll look the other way when Inc comes at us guns blazing."

"I have it under control," said Mr. President.

"I know fifteen murdered burgesses who would disagree."

Mr. President tightened his fist around his handkerchief. "I'd rather not be governing in the first place." He walked away. His retinue followed, leaving Everard, Brian, and Bill Bill sitting in the hall alone.

"Mr. President gets fed up with his job sometimes," said Bill Bill. "D.C. was supposed to just be for Congress to work when it was in session, not for people to actually live here."

Everard wasn't interested in a history lesson. He'd always stayed out of any conflict he saw. When you didn't want the government to notice you, that was always the best choice. But he also avoided conflict because once he got involved, he had a tough time letting it go.

"I'm here because you said you could protect me."

"I did, didn't I?"

"It was sheer luck I survived until you arrived."

"I'm sorry. We didn't anticipate the attack. It won't happen again."

No, thought Everard, it wouldn't.

"If you know Inc is behind this," he asked, "why don't you do something about it?"

"The CEO is smarter than me and you. If we make accusations we can't absolutely prove, they'll destroy our credibility. Right now we've got to win the battle for the people's hearts and minds."

"Which you said yourself that you're losing."

"That's true."

"But if you had some kind of proof about Inc, you could act?"

"If it was indisputable."

"Why don't you just walk in and take what you need? You can kill a man with a thought. How could they stop you?"

"There's ways to stop me from using my bent. Even if there weren't, and I walked in and killed everyone who tried to stop me, what would that prove? That you better not piss off the Burgesses or they'll murder everyone you know? This is politics; nothing's ever that simple."

Everard stood. The pistol he'd tucked in his belt became visible to Bill Bill.

"You don't know what that is, do you?"

"It's a gun that punches holes in things."

"It uses sound to punch holes in things, yes, that's what it's grown into. But when it started out, it was just a flintlock pistol a farmer brought to a protest against the British. You've heard of the 'shot heard around the world?'"

"I've heard the Schoolhouse Rock song," said Everard.

Bill Bill stood and brushed dust off his britches. "That's the pistol that fired it. The shot started a revolution, which eventually influenced revolutions all over the world. Whether it's justified or not, there's still oppressed people who get inspiration from American democracy. That pistol triggered a worldwide overthrow of authority."

"The colonies would have revolted anyways. It could have been any gun that fired the first shot."

"But it was that one. Anyone can bring about change, Everard. The only thing different about the people that do is... well, that they do." Bill Bill straightened his hat. "You think about what kind of rebellist you want to be. I've got to go talk to a man about a certain captive battery."

Bill Bill walked out of sight, leaving Everard alone next to the weeping teenager.

Everard didn't want to be any type of rebellist. He wanted to go home. But every crazy cult in the Periphery thought he was an easy target, and apparently Bill Bill had been talking out his ass when he said he could protect him.

If Everard was ever going home, he was on his own to get there. Assholes like Inc kept coming after you until gave them a reason not to.

The last time he'd beat up a bully had been high school, but now was as good a time as any to get back into it.

"Hey," he said to Brian, "I've gotta take care of some stuff."

Brian sniffed. "Yeah man, that's cool. I'm just gonna wait here a bit."

Everard stuck the pistol back into his belt and headed down the hallway. Brian needed comfort, but that wasn't really Everard's forte. What he could offer was revenge.

Bodybags were stacked outside the stairwell, waiting for a team of bluecoats to carry them up one at a time.

Everard went into the storage room to see Bermuda reorganizing a shelf that had been toppled. Another Burgess scrubbed blood off the floor where the curator had defended himself.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Everard."

The curator didn't bother turning around. "I know who you are. You claimed the booms tried to push you away, and when you fought it they almost killed you."

Everard nodded. Bermuda hadn't been too impressed with that claim last night.

"Loretta asked me to look into it," said Bermuda. "Might be something to your claims."

"Of course there is. Why would I make that up?"

"The worry isn't that you're lying, it's that you're ignorant." Bermuda straightened a framed mirror. "I think you might have got it backwards. I found some info on machines like what you described, and they're usually about luring something to it, not pushing something away."

"That neckbeard switched it on, and I got the sudden urge to get the hell out of there. The Minutemen were halfway out the door before they knew what was happening. I know what I saw."

"And I know what bent-touched machinery can do. Are you sure you didn't get confused?"

"Positive." Everard helped Bermuda lift the wooden mannequin back to its feet. The blast from Everard's test shot with the pistol had crippled it too severely, and it toppled back down.

Bermuda cursed. "Give me back the flintlock before you break that, too."

"I'm not done with it yet. But hear me out, and you'll like what I have to say."

"I don't like you. Why would I like what you say?"

"Those douchebags who trashed this place—who destroyed these... treasures you work so hard to preserve-"

"The douchebags who were after you?"

"Yep. Those guys. I'm going to hit them back. Actually, I'm going to hit the guys funding it."

Bermuda shorts laughed. "And I'm going to kill Undone Duncan with my bare hands. You're delusional. Did you kill any of those Lynch Mobbers yourself? First time you've killed someone, isn't it? That'll do quite a number on your mind."

Everard hadn't even thought about that. That was the first time he'd killed someone. But he'd been defending himself. The image of the sonic blast smashing skulls would haunt him, but he wouldn't hold any guilt over what he'd done. "I'm not afraid of getting my hands dirty. Do you remember why I'm here? Why Mr. President wanted me to come?"

"Because you're a rebellist. But you couldn't even defend yourself just now."

"So Inc will assume I don't know what I'm doing, just like the Lynch Mobbers did." He pointed outside, where the scent of gunpowder lingered, and blood still stained the walls and floor. "They were wrong."

Everard waited to see if Bermuda would call the bluff. If he'd been watching, he would have seen that the only thing Everard had denied was a single rifle, and that was only when adrenaline and fury had him thinking he was going to die anyways.

"Shit. You're gonna take on Inc? Head on?"

"I'm not trying to take down the whole organization. But I'll let them know that if they hit me, I'm hitting back twice as hard."

"I like the sound of that. I've been telling Mr. President to just send the Regulars to raid Inc's whole damn building. A bent-touched musketball between the CEO's eyes would remind everyone who's really in charge. What do you need from me?"

"First off, I don't know where Inc is."

"You can see the skyscrapers of their business park—12 Corcoran—from just about anywhere in the city. I thought you said you knew what you were doing."

"I'm new in town."

"And you haven't been back to the Central Nook yet?"

"Only briefly. It was dark."

"You're in for a treat." Bermuda wedged a board under the manaquin to balance it. "Okay, I'll help you. But you've got to do something for me. While you're there, find out everything you can about the booms. We need proof that Inc is backing Undone Duncan."

"Sure. I can ask a few questions while I'm tearing the place down." Everard straightened a fife on a shelf. "One more thing."

"You're pushing it, but go on."

"What do you have that explodes?"

Chapter Twenty-One

Everard adjusted the backpack Bermuda had given him, making sure the flintlock tucked into the back of his jeans was still accessible.

He wasn't sure if he was more nervous about dealing with Inc, or about the phone calls he'd have to make beforehand.

The foyer of the Hall of Burgesses had seen a more vicious battle. Blankets covered bodies. Crosses were burnt into the floor and walls. Burgesses stuffed Lynch Mobber corpses into bags. The air smelled of black powder.

The door he'd entered through was one of five. Above each was a plaque labeling the destination of the door. The one he'd came through read Capitol. The next read Market Square, and the next Inner Metro. The fourth plaque was in letters Everard didn't recognize, and the fifth plaque was blank. That door was the only one with a lock requiring a key on this side.

Everard kept his head down, and went through the Capitol door.

He felt a low buzz as he stepped out of the Periphery, onto the Capitol building veranda, off to the side of the main doors. He glanced back as the door shut behind him. It blended in with the wall unless he looked directly at it.

The first difference he noticed was the smell.

It should have been a mixture of cut grass, morning dew, and the intruding urban scents of exhaust and garbage - and those scents were there - but there was another, too, that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Almost sweet. Not acrid, or sour. Like cinnamon, but with a hint of something bitter and staticky. Tension hummed in the air, like before a thunderstorm.

Congress and its minions were arriving, sipping their coffee, trying to wake up on this sticky Friday morning. Everard was a dozen paces away from the door before anyone even glanced at him.

No one noticed the Periphery unless they were looking for it, or they'd already been forced into it. That explained why Everard had no idea what Bermuda was talking about when he'd said that Inc's skyscrapers were visible from anywhere in the city.

Jose had talked about bubbles. The reality Everard knew—the Central Nook, apparently—was a big bubble, while the Periphery was smaller bubbles stuck along on its edge. Everard had spent the night in the outside nooks; now he'd be searching for the nooks that squeezed themselves inside the Central Nook.

Everard scanned the sky for Inc's skyscrapers: 12 Cocoran.

It was then he noticed the second Washington Monument. The narrow white structure still stood where it always did, a mile down the Mall, halfway between the Capitol Building and the Lincoln Memorial. Now, a second monument, identical except for being rust colored and cracked, peeked out from behind the first, only its edge visible.

Even with the warning that he'd see things he'd never noticed before, this had to be some kind of optical illusion. He walked to the side, trying to get a better view. The rust colored copy shifted as he moved, so it was always just barely in view.

He really wanted it to be an optical illusion. Five hundred foot monuments couldn't play hide-and-seek like that. Then again, shadow societies couldn't be living in nooks in the Periphery of the city, either.

He bumped into a teenager in a pantsuit. "Sorry," he mumbled. The benefit of being in a touristy area was that he could act like a tourist. "Just trying to get a better look."

He'd ask someone about the extra monument later. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry. He jogged down the steps. The sidewalk gave a bit under feet, like the earth was soft beneath it.

Inc's skyscrapers were easy to spot. The low office buildings around him combined with the wide sidewalks lined with cherry trees to give a welcoming feel to the tourists. Less than a mile away, three steel and glass buildings scraped the sky. They must have been a collaboration between Philip Johnson and whoever designed that apartment building in Ghostbusters, all emotionless reflective glass while jutting steel helped maintain an imposing Gothic look.

Everard adjusted the backpack and headed toward them. He figured he'd walk the whole way. He wasn't interested in seeing how the Periphery leaked over into the Metro just yet. More importantly, he had some phone calls to make.

He headed down Constitution, then north onto 6th. The morning crowd headed to work, while early bird tourists were out getting their patriotic worms.

Everard pulled out his phone. If he was going to deliver Bermuda's package to Inc, he needed his bent to work, and that meant getting rid of every possible authority.

He started with the easiest task. Every account he was responsible for had to go. He figured library cards and savings accounts were fine. He could walk away from them with no consequence. And he figured anything in his business's name was fine—he could disappear and leave behind a corporation without a real person behind it. That included things like his phone, truck, townhouse, homeowners insurance, car insurance—anything he could put in his business's name without drawing the IRS's attention, he had.

But he listed out everything that directly billed Everard Harrison. The Internet subscription was to the business, but Netflix was in his name. He logged on and canceled it. Same for Spotify. His checking account had a fee, so he transferred everything to savings, called in, and closed the account. Home and car insurance was through his business. He didn't have health insurance.

He avoided the call he was really dreading, and made the second worse call instead.

He had a regular contract with a residential construction company who'd recognized that Everard was the best finish carpenter in the city. That meant that whatever they said, he had to do. Fortunately, with the Fairfax job done, their accounts were even.

Everard called in, told the secretary he was ending their contract, suggested one of his competitors as a replacement, made sure she wrote down the message, and ended the call.

He was about halfway to 12 Corcoran now. He sat on a bench, watching the traffic while a fearful and nervous knot grew in his stomach.

The whole thing pissed him off.

He'd been thinking about taking the next step with Abby, actually admitting there was something there. He'd have to tell her about Liz, and probably introduce them, but he thought Liz might even grow to like Abby. After a while. Obviously not at first.

Everard brought up his recent calls and found Abby. This was stupid. But there wasn't a way around it. He couldn't let Inc keep thinking he was an easy target. But he'd faced Bowman and got his ass handed to him. If his bent worked, he could deny those black flame lighters and they would just be wimps in suits. If his bent didn't work, they'd destroy him.

He couldn't go in there with anyone having authority over him. And according to Loretta, that included love interests. Sure, he'd never defined their relationship, but he was committed to her. Ever since that Sunday when she'd taken him around to all the hidden architectural marvels in D.C., and he'd pretended like he hadn't seen them before, until she brought him to [neighborhood] and showed him a house designed by Pierre L'Enfant he actually hadn't seen before. During the night, while she slept with her back against his chest, he decided the house felt less empty with Abby there.

And now if she asked for something, he'd do it. That was authority any way you looked at it.

It was either stick with Abby or destroy Inc. He couldn't have both. Actually, if he didn't stop Inc from coming after him, he couldn't exactly have a happy life with Abby. So there really wasn't a choice at all. Let Inc hunt him down while he ignored his problems and played happy couple with Abby, or walk away from Abby, and use his strengthened bent to kick Inc in the balls.

He thought about Brian weeping over Renae, and hit the call button.

A young couple walked by, holding hands. While the phone rang, he pushed away his jealousy, replaced it with dishonest practicality. Even if everything were normal, he didn't want that. Why would anyone want to depend on someone else for their happiness?

"Everard!" Abby sounded annoyed and relieved. "You said you would call last night. I tried you this morning, but it kept going straight to voicemail."

"Yeah, I, uh, hmm." He should have planned what to say. "I think it's time to end things."

That was stupid. You were supposed to start by saying you needed to talk.

The silence on the other end told him everything he was worried about. He wanted her to tell him he was wrong, to argue that there was something between them worth fighting for.

Or for her to scream at him, to tell him he was an awful person for doing this over the phone, that she could and would do better.

He didn't know what to do with silence.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's not like I didn't see it coming." Her forced smile was audible. "You were never that committed to this."

A thousand contradictions demanded to be loosed by his tongue. What had she seen coming? He didn't want to end it. What signs had he given?

Instead, he said, "I wish I felt differently. I just don't."

Everard tried not to picture the way she bit her lip when holding back tears.

"Why?" her voice broke.

"I don't know," he said. "There's nothing I don't like about you. But I don't see this going any further."

He wished she'd at least cry, so she could know he knew how much this hurt her.

"You're not going to tell me who Liz is, or why she keeps calling you?"

Everard drummed his fingers on the bench. Where did he even start?

"Fine," she said.

"What?"

"Fine. If this is what you want, and you don't want to tell me the truth, then fine."

"Okay. Well. Goodbye."

In the moment before she hung up, he thought of Loretta and Jose, wondered what it took to build that sort of relationship surrounded by that much danger. Maybe these frustrations and impossibilities were just a step on the way toward what Loretta and Jose had.

His phone went silent.

He knew this feeling, the familiar lonely weight; even if he could distract his mind, his body still remembered.

The happy couple was only thirty feet down the sidewalk. Everard picked up a pebble and chucked it at them. It hit the guy in the back of the neck.

He turned around and Everard stared him down, dared the lovebird to call him out. The kid mumbled something and walked away.

"Pansy," accused Everard.

He tested his bent, grabbed hold of the thought of the lovebird's shoelace. That sense of an oppressive mist returned, but this time it was lighter. He denied the knot, straining to push his will through the mist.

The lovebird stumbled, caught himself on his girlfriend.

Everard stood up. He was a goddamn superhero.

All it took was sacrificing someone to rant to about his clients, and drag him to pho restaurants, and remind him that although he liked being independent, maybe being independent with someone was better.

"Fuck." He headed on towards 12 Corcoran, itching to take out some frustration.

As much as that phone called sucked, there were bigger things to deal with. Who cared if a relationship ended when there were assholes in suits thinking they could bully him around, and killing people to do it? Everard's grief over Abby didn't compare to Brian's grief over Renae.

On the plus side, usually Everard had no one to blame over a breakup. No one to lash out at. But this time, it was one hundred percent Inc's fault.

Everard quickened his pace. He would enjoy making them pay for it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Inc's skyscrapers and the extra Washington Monument weren't the only parts of the Periphery leaking into D.C.

A few people from the menagerie of the Mall nook walked among the crowds, the topside D.C. residents not paying them any mind.

Everard didn't like it. Maybe everything going back to normal would be even harder than he was thinking.

He'd left the more touristy locations of D.C. and walked between brick row houses and poorly trimmed trees toward 12 Corcoran, now only a block away. Inc's three skyscrapers brooded over the city, forty-story monuments to abudance and power, ignored by everyone.

Everard eyed the pedestrians around him, picked out the sharply dressed men, careful to notice if they gave him a second glance. His plan was simple, and shouldn't take too much to pull off, but if they saw him coming it'd be more difficult.

The rows of houses ended, opening up into the courtyard of 12 Corcoran. Bermuda hadn't been lying. Everard was impressed. Towers of mirrored windows hiding who knows what. Every ten floors the buildings narrowed, leaving a veranda that wrapped around.

Suits from the crowd headed between the buildings, to the courtyard in the center of the block. Everard joined them. He waited for someone to point out that he didn't belong, but no one gave him a second glance.

A fountain occupied the center of the courtyard, while perfectly manicured trees lined the edges.

He looked around, trying to remember what should have been here, but it was as if Inc's skyscrapers had pushed aside the surrounding blocks without moving them. The office park had arrived with its own space.

Everard walked through the courtyard, toward the tallest building. Abby would call him stupid for this, and she'd probably be right. But it didn't matter what she thought anymore. That was in the past.

The plan was simple. Walk inside, find a good spot to leave the backpack, and walk away. After a couple minutes, Bermuda's gift would do its job. He'd get revenge for Renae, and he'd make sure they knew he was behind it. Hit them hard enough that they'd back off.

Everard walked up the steps, toward the revolving glass door. The more reasonable part of his mind screamed that this was going to get him killed. He told it to shut up.

He reached behind his back to grip the pistol, then glanced around to make sure no one was watching too closely.

A dead man hung from a tree.

Everard's heart leapt. The corpse hung by its neck from a noose, but there were also bits of wire holding its face up, showing its identity to the world—the guy who'd threatened Loretta's husband. His tongue was black and his suit was shredded and charred.

"Holy shit." Everard suddenly understood a little better why everyone acted nervous around her.

Suits passed by on the sidewalk, offering the corpse only nervous glances.

It sounded like Loretta pissed off a lot of people in her line of work. Normally, that would mean her family were in danger, but Everard figured Jose and their kids were the safest people in the city. You had to respect that.

Everard pushed through the revolving door. It was shaping up to be a bad day for Inc.

The foyer was bigger than it needed to be. You could have fit four floors in the space between the marble floors and the domed ceiling. To either side, gold plated elevators lined the walls.

And for such a large room, it was pretty empty. No lounge area; not even a reception desk for visitors.

Everard expected his steps to echo, but the architect had somehow kept the room quiet.

A man stood at either side of the foyer, at the elevators, each wearing a perfectly tailored suit, each with perfectly parted hair. As Everard walked to the center of the foyer, the men left their posts to converge on him.

"Hey guys," said Everard. "Bowman said he wanted to see me. Something about a dry cleaning bill."

With one hand still under his shirt, gripping the pistol, he took off the backpack.

Both men pulled lighters from their pockets.

Everard dropped the backpack. Here was as good a place as any.

"Take your bag and walk away," said the gray haired man, "and we'll forget you and Loretta were ever here."

Everard raised a finger to interject. "Loretta's still here?"

The younger suit examined Everard closely. "What, she doesn't keep her lackey's informed?"

"That must be why they never last long," laughed the older one, his voice revealing a lifetime of smoking.

They both stopped about arms' reach from Everard. The younger suit flicked his lighter. A black flame sparked to life.

"What did she send you here to do?"

Everard took a step back. If they thought this was from Loretta, then leaving the bag wouldn't scare them off him. They'd just think it was more retaliation for the threats. "You don't know who I am?"

"Listen, kid," said the younger suit. "I don't have time to memorize every face of every punk who thinks riding the coattails of a programmer will make a name for himself."

That pissed Everard off. "Your joke of an organization tried to kill me this morning, and you don't even know who I am? You must be way at the bottom of the totem pole. I'd probably have to dig down around it just to see your carved ugly faces."

"Hold on, buddy," said the older one.

"How do you get to be your age and never get a promotion?" Everard turned his anger on the older suit. "Most people would find that insulting, maybe look for another place of employment. Takes a real bitch to stick around."

The older one's lighter flicked to life, and he held a twenty to the black flame. From this close, the flame seemed to suck the bill in, rather than burn across it.

"Twenty dollars?" laughed Everard. "Bottom of the totem pole, and bottom of the pay scale, huh?"

"That's all it'll take to deal with you."

Everard focused on the lighter. No.

Nothing happened.

A wave of force slammed into Everard, but this time he expected it. He stumbled, kept his feet. Still, it felt like getting hit with a two by four.

Everard pounded his fist on the marble floor. What was the point of dumping Abby?

He drew the pistol, used two hands to aim it at the older suit.

The younger suit sneered. "Maybe he's not Loretta's lackey. She wouldn't hire someone who thought a musketball could touch us."

Everard considered that. The Lynch Mobbers certainly hadn't been able to stop musketballs. The blood splatters in the Hall of Burgesses proved that. But these guys believed they could. Made you wonder if they could stop a focused cacaphony that would otherwise be loud enough to be heard around the world.

He pulled the trigger to find out.

He'd been aiming for the younger one's lighter, but the guy twitched at the last second. The blast jerked his arm backwards, bending the elbow the wrong direction. Everard winced at the sound of the bone and tendons snapping. The lighter bounced on the marble tile.

Still no echo.

The suit screamed in pain while the older one fumbled for another bill, this time a hundred. Everard was flattered.

His second shot didn't miss. With the muffled roar of the flintlock, the lighter shot across the room to embed itself in an elevator door, leaving behind mangled fingers. The older suit was more used to pain. He pulled a more modern pistol from a shoulder holster.

No.

Still nothing. The mental mist dropped heavy around Everard's senses. Had he dumped Abby for nothing?

The suit raised the pistol with a shaky hand. Everard aimed for the chest. He couldn't risk missing. Maybe these guys could stop a musketball, but Everard couldn't stop a bullet. Consistently, anyways.

Everard pulled the trigger. The suit lifted off the floor before flying ten feet and skidding across the tile. He clutched at the side of chest, gasping for breath.

Everard pointed the flintlock at the younger one, daring him to pull out his own gun.

"My name is Everard Harrison. I don't work for Loretta. I don't work for anybody."

A look of realization appeared on the younger one's face. "You're the rebellist."

"That's what they're telling me," said Everard. "And I guess that's why your bosses sent a hit squad after me this morning. Although, I can see why they didn't send you."

Everard picked up his backpack. Messing up the foyer wasn't going to satisfy his rage. He wanted to look Bowman in the eyes before pressing the button. He wanted every person in this building to know what this was. Every suit in Inc needed to recognize him, and know to stay away.

Everard chose an elevator and hit the up button. Time to go upstairs and introduce himself.

A bell dinged and the doors slid open to reveal plush carpet and mirrored walls. Everard stepped inside. The doors shut. Even they were mirrored.

Whichever direction he looked, he saw infinite copies of himself. He looked insane. His hair was greasy and unkempt, and his clothes were wrinkled with a burn across the left shoulder. He had a bruise on the bridge of his nose. He realized it was aching. There were blood spatters on his neck. He rubbed them off into dried up bits.

The elevator buttons went up to fifty-nine, with number sixty off by itself above a keyhole. He pressed it anyways. Nothing happened.

Fifty-nine it was, then.

If not for the initial force of the elevator starting to move, Everard wouldn't have been able to tell it was moving at all. This was some high quality construction.

The numbers ticked by faster than he expected.

He'd leave the bag on the sixtieth floor. That would show Inc - and the Periphery - what happened when you came after Everard Harrison. You got hit back right where you thought you were safest.

As the elevator passed forty, Everard inspected the pistol. He didn't know much about flintlocks - and this obviously wasn't a normal flintlock - but he made sure the firing mechanism could move, and the barrel was clear. It calmed his nerves as he waited to see what would be on floor fifty-nine.

Finally, the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

Everard raised the pistol, ready to dive for cover.

He saw an open floor of cubicles, surrounded by offices. In the cubicles Everard could see into, men stared intensely at computer screens, or poured over ledgers. One man with blonde hair and a closely trimmed beard stuck his head up to look at Everard, then went back to work.

Everard stepped out onto the floor. The workers gave him nothing more than glances. They seemed out of place for cubicle work. For starters, not a single one had removed his suit jacket. They all sat with perfect posture, perfectly parted hair, perfectly pressed suits. Glistening black leather dress shoes.

Everard peered into a cubicle as he passed. Even a guy doing data entry was dressed like he owned the place. He looked up at Everard for a moment, managed to look down his nose despite being seated, then went back to his work.

Everard walked deeper into the room. He held the pistol at his side. He felt out of place brandishing a weapon, like he'd walked into a regular office building armed.

The men - and they were all men - ranged in age from early thirties to late fifties. The only reason men like this would subject themselves to cubicle work would be for a chance at the next step up.

Everard scanned the room. Somewhere there had to be a way up to the sixtieth floor.

An office door opened, and another face in a suit stepped outside. He saw Everard, paused, then pretended he hadn't seen anything. He went through another door, into a bathroom.

Had to still be pretty low in the pecking order if he didn't have a private bathroom in his office.

Everard looked for a fire exit. That elevator couldn't be the only way to the top. Fire codes didn't allow it. Did they have fire codes in the Periphery?

All the doors looked the same - solid oak, gold burnished handles. Even the bathroom door had looked like the others.

He kept expecting someone to try to stop him, or at least give him more than a brief glance, but they all kept their heads buried in their work. Everard wondered if they'd even react if he shot one of their computers.

Nothing was keeping him here, now. Everyone had seen him. Wherever he left the bag, they'd know it was from him. He didn't want to leave it in here, though. These guys were peons. Kinda messed up to take revenge on Inc by targeting these cubicle rats. Then again, if you signed up to work for a messed up corporation, that made you pretty messed up.

But Everard wasn't here to pass judgment on poor employment choices. Better to keep on to the top.

He could feel his resolve slipping. This was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea, and he knew he was pushing forward on adrenaline and anger. Still, he was determined to go through with it, even if it meant bumping up his adrenaline on purpose.

He picked a younger worker who typed more sporadically than the others, and whose death stare at his screen betrayed his struggle to not let Everard distract him. Everard tapped him on the shoulder with the butt of the flintlock.

"How do I get upstairs?"

"Leave me alone," he said. "I have to meet this deadline."

"The quicker you point me to your boss, the quicker I'll get out of your hair."

The worker reached into his jacket and pulled out a lighter. Everard snatched it out of his hand before he could react. With reflexes like that, this guy wasn't moving up anytime soon, regardless of what Everard did.

Everard jammed the barrel against the back of the guy's neck. "You know the two guys in the foyer? I'm guessing they intimidate you. A man doesn't get to be the main line of defense in an organization like this without proving himself."

The worker strained to look around without turning his head, but his coworkers ignored him. "I know them. They'll kill you."

"How do you think I got up here?"

He scoffed. "How do you think you'll get out?"

An office door opened, and a silver haired man appeared. He stood over six feet, and he was built like a linebacker. Age didn't seem to have slowed him down. He headed straight for Everard.

Everard watched to see if this newcomer would reach for his own lighter. He'd turn the pistol on him if he did. As the man drew nearer, Everard turned to face him, ready to aim the flintlock at whoever went for their pocket, or—in the case of the retired linebacker—went for Everard.

"Taylor, your productivity has dropped fifty-four percent for this quarter-hour." The big man didn't even look at Everard.

"I'll make it up," said the nervous worker, apparently Taylor. He turned back to his computer.

"See that you do. Remember what happened to Wells."

"What happened to Wells?" asked Everard.

The manager noticed Everard. "You should leave. You're interrupting our billable hours."

"Who are you billing?"

"I've already called security."

"If they're taking longer than normal, it's because I broke one's arm and, to be honest, the other guy got it even worse."

The big man furled his brow. It took an odd mix of confidence and submission to succeed in the corporate world; Everard imagined those two characteristics were battling fiercely inside his head. Did he throw Everard out himself and risk wasting precious, billable time? Or did he get back to work, safe to ignore Everard under the banner of it's not my job?

"Go bother someone else," he decided. "Leave my team alone."

He walked back to his office. Taylor typed furiously.

If everyone was going to work that hard to ignore him, he could be a little more bold. He picked a wall and started opening doors. Some were locked, which Everard figured must be offices. A few were unlocked, although the men inside didn't even look up from the computers or phone calls. Through one door was an unsurprisingly empty break room, complete with leather couch, high-end espresso machine, and glass door fridge full of designer bottled water. Everard decided he was thirsty and helped himself.

He got halfway down the wall when he found the staircase. Weird that it wasn't in the corner, or next to the elevators, but the architects of the Periphery seemed to enjoy tweaking things just a little. Maybe they had their reasons.

It had the same tile steps and steel railings as any building's back stairwell. Everard went inside and let the door slam behind him. It echoed downward. He peered down the middle, to the floor sixty stories below. He was pretty sure most buildings had solid landings every few floors. Apparently, Inc wasn't too concerned about accidents. Maybe that's what happened to Wells.

Everard jogged up the final flight of stairs.

He came to a steel door. It's lack of elegance made it clear this wasn't the most common entrance for this top floor. Everard tried the handle, but it was locked. He checked the hinges to see that it opened towards him. Shooting the handle might just bar the lock in place.

Stepping back, Everard fired three times, once at each hinge. The force punched them through the steel of the door and frame, and the door hung loosely.

Everard shoved it over and walked through.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The door crashed to the floor, revealing a small room with cinderblock walls and a heavy wooden door.

Bowman sat at a desk using a tablet. He jumped back from the fallen door, a lighter and hundred dollar bill appearing in his hands.

Everard aimed the pistol at his face, not five feet away. "Drop it."

Recognition flashed across Bowman's face. "Everard Harrison. You're the lunatic from the Black Sheep."

"And I ruined your tie, I get it," said Everard. "Now drop your lighter. Your buddies downstairs didn't think I could hurt them with this. Are you going to make the same mistake?"

Bowman set both the lighter and the tablet down on the table.

"Good," said Everard. "Now-"

Bowman jerked his arms, and a barrage of colorful pool balls popped into existence, blasted into Everard, knocked him on his ass. One cracked against his forehead, triggering an instant headache.

"Just because my security didn't tell me who was coming, doesn't mean they didn't tell me someone was coming," said Bowman. "What kind of operation do you take us for?"

Everard frantically looked around for the pistol. He spotted it under the mangled door, and dove for it.

Bowman knocked him backwards with a wave of invisible force. This time Everard's shoulder took the brunt of the impact. "I told you to walk away. I told you what would happen to your little secret if you didn't."

Everard jerked open the backpack to pull out Bermuda's gift, what he'd called the "Mariner's Box." It was a silver cube, each side with nine squares, each square depicting a different ship. Everard pulled the windup key from his pocket and stuck it into a hole in the corner.

Bowman sent another wave, weaker now, but still strong enough to knock the cube out of his hand. Everard reached for it. Bowman stepped on his hand.

"I'll make sure everyone knows who you are. The IRS, the Social Security Administration, they're all our clients."

Bowman didn't know about Liz. The relief was palpable, even with Everard's throbbing head.

Bowman put his weight on Everard's hand. His bones ground together and against the marble floor.

He tried what he'd seen Bill Bill and Mr. President do, focusing on the idea of Bowman's balance, that he could stand up straight. No.

Nothing happened. That same heavy, mental mist sunk down around his mind, kept his will locked down tight.

"How are you still alive? How has someone stupid enough to attack us in our own building not been killed already?"

Everard couldn't figure out this whole rebellist thing, but he'd still spent every day of the last ten years carrying lumber and swinging a hammer. He swung around to kick Bowman's legs out from under him.

The older man fell backwards, reaching back to catch himself. His wrist cracked as he caught the edge of the fallen door. He gritted his teeth, looking more pissed off than in pain.

Everard leapt to his feet, stomped on Bowman's chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him. As Bowman gasped for air, Everard snatched up the box, wound the key seven times, and dropped it. Then he grabbed the flintlock from under the door and made for the stairs.

If Bermuda was right, he had about seven minutes to get out.

A weak wave of force hit him in the back, but didn't even make him stumble.

Right before Everard stepped into the stairwell, the door shot back into its frame, almost taking off his head. The slam echoed down the stairs. A deadbolt appeared and latched shut, steel cracking as the bolt punctured the frame. A second deadbolt appeared on the opposite side. The door twisted a bit with the intrusion. Then, one after another as if fired from a nail gun, deadbolts burst into being all around the edges of the door, even breaking apart the marble tile on the floor to stab deep into the flooring.

"A little overkill," said Everard, turning around.

The CEO stood in the wooden doorway, which was now open. He tucked a lighter into his inner jacket pocket. "Everard. What a pleasant surprise."

Despite having twenty years on Bowman—he had to be over sixty, while Bowman looked around forty—the CEO was the more imposing man, although Everard couldn't pinpoint why. His slicked back white hair and slightly chubby face and body seemed harmless enough. Pasty skin and a soft grimace made Everard want to tell the old man everything would be all right. But maybe that was the power of a good suit; it could make anyone look in charge.

"I see you received our invitation from this morning," said the CEO. "The Lynch Mobbers are a nasty bunch, but they certainly get the job done."

"The hell they do," said Everard. "I'm still alive. The Burgesses slaughtered them."

"I wanted to say hello," said the CEO. "I've marked the deal as successful."

Bowman stood, breathing carefully.

Everard glanced briefly at the Mariner's Box. It wasn't brief enough.

"Bowman," said the CEO, "hand me that trinket."

He took the box from his lackey. "I don't understand the Burgesses' obsession with history. Although, I do appreciate that tinker's flair for morbid creativity. What's this do, I wonder?"

Everard estimated whether he could bring the flintlock up and fire before either of these suits could stop him. If the old man could launch a two hundred pound steel door and then make deadbolts appear out of nowhere, probably not. He figured the only way out of this was patience and cunning, the first of which was not his strong suite.

Holding the cube up to eye level, the CEO inspected each engraving. "Oh, a nautical theme! Have you ever gone sailing, Everard? A thrilling pursuit. I used to race skiffs, back when I was a bit more flexible."

Somehow, his tone contained mourning and a rosy nostalgia, although Everard couldn't figure out how it could be both.

If Everard couldn't use the pistol, then he wanted both hands free. He moved to tuck it into the back of his pants. The CEO paused from inspecting the cube to raise his eyebrows. Bowman stepped between them. Everard let the gun hang between his thumb and forefinger.

"I'm putting it away," he said. He stuck it into his belt at the small of his back, wishing flintlocks had safeties.

"We're not letting you walk around armed," said Bowman.

"I've responded to your invitation," said Everard, feigning offense. "You're not going to treat me like an enemy, are you?"

"Of course not," said the CEO. "Don't draw it, and I won't dissolve your joints. But I do insist you tell me what this little treasure does. Wait, let me guess. It's forged from a cannonball fired from the sinking Bon Homme Richard of Captain John Paul Jones, the tinker's explosive way of declaring he has not yet begun to fight. Am I correct?"

He wasn't. "Something like that," said Everard.

Holding the box to his ear, the CEO exclaimed, "and it's ticking! His ingenuity is really something. When you head back to the House of Burgesses, I'll have you deliver a job offer to Bermuda. What do you say?"

Maybe it was the CEO's dual emotions freaking him out, but Everard didn't know what to say. They were going to let him leave? The CEO thought he was holding a ticking bomb, and he was excited about it? They knew Bermuda's name but didn't know how much he despised Inc?

"Sir," said Bowman, "we should really put that in a safe."

"You're right, I wasn't thinking. Some flesh is more expendable than others. Let me show you my office, Everard."

The CEO walked through the doorway. Bowman motioned for Everard to go ahead of him, which he did.

Everard had once read a GQ article while waiting in the dentist's office about the difference between fashion and style. The argument went that fashion was whatever was popular at the time, while style was timeless.

The CEO's office had style. The floors and walls were polished cherry wood, with ornate baseboards and wainscoting that Everard was pretty sure were patterned after one of his own designs. A marble hearth framed a six foot fireplace. The desk was a darker mahogany, lined with gold trim.

"Fancy," said Everard.

"Absolutely," said the CEO. "Although, I prefer the word elegant. Do you know how much this cost me?"

Oddly enough, Everard's career prepared him to answer that question. "Around four hundred K for materials. That again for labor, if you went with the highest bidder."

"Ha! This wood cost me three million, and I paid the finest carpenter in the country a million and a half."

Everard crouched to feel the floor. "This is cherry?"

"The finest."

"And the walls, too?"

"Of course."

"You overpaid."

"It's fantastic, isn't it?" The CEO went to the desk where he typed a number into a keypad.

A square of flooring rose up, revealing a safe, which he opened and used to store the Mariner's Box.

Bowman stepped directly behind Everard to growl into his ear. "Your little bomb won't do anything in there."

"If you're trying to intimidate me," said Everard, "either burn another bill, or spend a few months in the gym."

The CEO laughed, or maybe moaned. Everard couldn't decide how he'd describe it. Fearful mirth, maybe.

"It's tough to motivate ourselves to care for our physical bodies," said the CEO. "The flesh is an odd thing. We spend our entire existence chasing after what it craves, all while watching it fall apart. My philosophy is that the flesh is meant to be chewed up, savored, and spit out."

"My mom had that embroidered on a pillow," said Everard.

"Now you're mocking me," said the CEO. He tapped on the keypad and the safe disappeared back under the floor.

"A little," said Everard. How much time was left? Six minutes?

"It's rude to treat your host like that."

"What's the harm in a playful jab?" asked Everard. "If you don't mind, there are a few things I wanted to talk to you about."

That took the CEO off guard. "I would have said the same thing."

"You go first," said Everard, making himself comfortable on the leather couch. He motioned for the CEO to sit on the armchair, just to watch Bowman fume. It worked.

The CEO obliged, his grin revealing both amusement and disdain. "Despite your disregard for courtesy, which I've accepted is the norm for rebellists, we'd like to offer you a position at Inc."

Everard kept a straight face. "Entry level?"

"Of course not. We'd start you out at senior management."

"What would my duties be?" Everard checked his watch. Five minutes. Still enough time to get down to the next floor, which would probably be enough to survive.

"You'd work directly with me, somewhat like Bowman's position."

"Would I get one of those lighters?"

"That can be arranged, although I don't imagine you'll need it once you master your bent."

"Let's discuss compensation," said Everard.

"We don't work on traditional salary structures here."

"Here's an offer," said Everard, "I'll consider taking this position if you answer a few questions for me."

"Maybe. Let's hear the questions."

"I've got a bet with Bermuda—are the booms trying to push people away or pull people in?"

The CEO sat up straight, thrilled and furious. "Right to the heart of the matter! You should trust your own experience. You experienced their effect firsthand, didn't you?"

"They're pushing people away."

"Then again, that tinker is one of the smartest men I know. He's worth listening to."

"They're luring someone." Everard paused. "It's both."

"A fantastic little invention. The Perforated Woman is as brilliant as Bermuda, in her own way." The CEO noticed Everard checking his watch. "Somewhere to be?"

"He's waiting for his bomb go off," said Bowman.

"I'd forgotten about that! I'm afraid you won't even hear it inside that safe. Now, I'm anxious to hear your thoughts on our offer."

"A few more questions."

The CEO gritted his teeth inside a genuine smile. "I'm afraid not. We can't discuss sensitive internal matters until you're fully on board."

"So the booms are an internal matter? You're saying Inc is behind them?"

"Very little happens in this city that we aren't aware of."

"That's not an answer. I'll only consider your offer if you give me a real answer."

"How about I show you what your duties would be?"

That caught Everard's curiosity. Although in another three minutes, he needed to start sprinting out of here. "That sounds intriguing."

"Excellent," smiled the CEO. He stood from his chair, limber as a man thirty years younger.

Everard followed, again with Bowman taking position behind them. The CEO placed his palm on a mirror that hung on the wall. A line of green light scanned his handprint, and the wall slid open.

Based on movies he'd seen, Everard expected there to either be some sort of dark secret passage, or a sterile looking lab with tables and shelves lined with bottled chemicals. Instead, it looked like the same contractor had built this other room. The only thing different was the lack of furniture, and the addition of opaque glass doors in the cherry walls. The far wall had only a gold elevator, directly in the middle, with a single button pointing up.

The CEO's leather shoes tapped on polished wood as he led the way across the room.

"Aren't we on the top floor?" Everard was getting tired of spatial reality not meaning anything.

The dark glass doors became transparent when viewed from directly in front. Behind the first four were fine suits, like some kind of luxury clothier display window. Everard stepped closer to get a better look at one. There had to be something that made these different, if they were up here behind glass. But there was nothing he could tell. Charcoal gray, pinstripes, cuffed pants, and a three-button jacket.

He wanted to try it on. Not that he'd worn a suit since going to a funeral with a set of foster parents when he was thirteen, but this one would look good on him. Looked like it would fit him perfectly.

"Let's not waste time," said the CEO, to which Bowman smirked.

How much time until he needed to run? He doubted he'd got enough info to satisfy Bermuda, but the Mariner's Box would still do its job, and leave Inc - and the rest of the Periphery - with a lasting impression.

He probably had another three minutes. Enough time to keep the CEO talking.

"Aren't you supposed to be telling me about this potential job opening?" asked Everard.

"Showing you," corrected the CEO. "If you'll step into the elevator with me, it'll become clear."

"Do you want to try that again with a more ominous voice?" asked Everard. "It almost sounded like a good idea."

Everard passed the next glass door and froze. Inside was a man wearing only boxer briefs and a t-shirt, arms down and slightly back, standing stiff in the center of the tiny room. He opened his eyes, the only part of his body he seemed capable of moving, and stared straight at Everard.

"The hell?" said Everard.

The CEO pressed the button, then turned to face Everard as the doors dinged open, revealing a typical elevator.

"I hate rebellists." The CEO's voice now contained both spite and terror. "What gives you the right to eschew your superiors? It's selfishness, plain and simple. If everyone lived like you, the world would descend into chaos."

Everard's first thought was this man was a captive battery, although his prison lacked the setup he'd seen in the Hall of Burgesses.

"On the other hand," continued the CEO, "your bent is just so interesting. I'm dying to try it out."

Time to run.

Everard shoulder-checked Bowman to the floor, then booked it back towards the CEO's office. Something heavy wrapped around his ankles and he fell. In a single motion, he rolled to his back and drew the flintlock, but the chain appearing around his legs sped up and wrapped around his entire body up to his neck. His hand and the pistol were pressed to his chest. The chain continued to materialize, layers and layers around him, until he felt like the prey of a giant spider.

"Toss him in," said the CEO, walking past. He paused to look down at Everard. "I'll answer your questions later. We'll be getting to know each other quite well."

The silver-haired old man left Everard with Bowman, the wall sliding shut behind him.

Bowman kicked Everard in the gut, although the blow lost its strength somewhere in the fifth or six layer of chain.

"This is more than you deserve," said Bowman. He strained to half roll, half slide Everard toward the elevator. "Once I'm promoted, my first order of business will be retiring your body."

"The hell are you talking about?" The barrel of the pistol against his chest, Everard tried to maneuver himself so it aimed at Bowman. He pulled the trigger. The muffled cacophony missed Bowman, smashing the glass in front of one of the suits. It punched a hole in the chains, too narrow to free him.

Bowman raised his foot to stomp on Everard's jaw, but then thought better of it. Whatever they were planning on doing to him, apparently they wanted his body whole.

As Bowman forced Everard to the elevator, this time keeping the pistol pointed away from him, Everard got a clear look through the remaining windows. Each revealed a paralyzed man, every one white, fit, and handsome. Those that opened their eyes looked around frantically.

"What's in there?" asked Everard as they neared the elevator.

"You'll see," said Bowman.

He should have ran while he had the chance. Well, whether he really had the chance or not, he should have ran. Should have left the Mariner's Box in the stairwell and left. But thanks to his stubbornness, here he was.

With another shove from Bowman's foot, Everard slid the final few inches into the elevator, the chains scratching the floor.

The elevator doors closed.

Everard struggled against the chains. He pulled the trigger again, breaking a few more links. But while the blast shattered the chain, it didn't even scratch the elevator walls.

Another ding, and the elevator started upwards.

Sweat dampened his shirt. He fired again, wriggled his shoulders. Another two shots and he pulled his arms free.

The lights flickered.

He tried to yank his lower body free, but the chains were too taught, and their weight was too much. His shirt stuck to his skin, now soaked with sweat. This elevator was like a quick-heating oven.

Again, the lights flashed, a slow, irregular pattern. In each moment of darkness, the elevator disappeared, leaving Everard floating in a violet-tinged void.

He thought of the tunnel underground between the Amphitheater and the Junk Shoals, where something breathed inside a wall too small to possibly hold it. They'd explained there were nooks beyond the Periphery, where the NSA forced prisoners to explore. Everard was pretty sure he was staring at one of those nooks now.

Aiming carefully, he blasted through enough chain to get free and stand up.

Movement at the edge of his vision. He whirled to face it, raising the flintlock.

The lights came back on, restoring the walls of the elevator.

A single button made up the controls, and it wasn't marked. Everard jammed at it, but nothing happened.

Darkness. In the distance, something massive stirred, a flowing wrinkle of shadow stretching out to either edge of his vision, yet still impossibly far away.

The lights returned. Everard couldn't fathom what was out there, or how big it was. He did know that he wanted to get out of this elevator. In the movies, people trapped in elevators always removed a ceiling tile, but this ceiling was a single, solid piece of drywall.

He jammed his fingers between the doors, but they didn't budge.

Everything went black, and the approaching nightmare had halved the distance between it and Everard. It's obscure bulk rolled towards him in erratic jerks, dragging itself through the emptiness with invisible limbs.

For all his effort, Everard couldn't focus his eyes on it. It was part of this non-space, but a different shade of nothing. It stretched in all directions as far as he could see, but whenever he tried to look at single spot, there was nothing.

The lights didn't come back. Everard was trapped on an invisible floor floor, suspended in emptiness. He stomped, felt the marble floor under his boots. He kicked down with his heel, harder and harder until he broke off a piece of marble, then crouched to pick it up. He had to feel around for it, but once he held it it became visible. Some part of him was still in the elevator. Maybe that meant he could still escape.

He stood, aimed the flintlock at the floor, and collapsed as the approaching presence forced images, sounds, smells, into his head. They were of him, but through a perception totally alien. He saw his body in a different color scale, impossible colors he'd never seen before, that made him nauseous trying to comprehend. But it was still him. A million versions of him, different, conflicting possibilities, but each surprisingly happy. Marrying Abby and having a houseful of children. Running for office. Growing his business. Starting a charity with Liz. Glimpses into these possibilities, brief images overshadowed by the emotion that came with them. Contentment. Peace. Accomplishment.

But behind all this, a deeper anticipation, vile and overpowering, seeping through every imagining.

Everard's head throbbed.

Although he pressed his forehead to the invisible tile and squeezed his eyes shut, he felt the thing consume the elevator. The elevator swayed like it'd been hit with a tidal wave. While the walls stayed invisible, steel creaked as it stretched and bent.

The positive images of the future abruptly vanished.

A vision invaded his mind, of his consciousness—everything that made Everard who he was—being crushed, squeezed into a tiny corner of his self, making way for a wisp of avarice smaller than the horror surrounding him, some peon to it.

A finely tailored suit appeared on his body, heavier than chains.

The million possibilities for his life shattered, cast aside to make way for a wicked consciousness that wanted a host. Its god wept with the joy of the wasted lives.

A burst of alien orgasmic pleasure invaded Everard's mind. He vomited, hot bile splashing over his hands.

The suit wasn't on him yet; only the implanted vision of it. Everard rose to his knees, struggling to control his body from the tiny portion of his self that he still occupied. All trapped inside an empty cube assaulted by a dense mass of writhing, impossible flesh. Shaking with the effort, he pulled the trigger.

A ray burst through the attacker, ripped a hole that left fluttering flaps of absence.

The thing squeezed tighter. The floor buckled under Everard's feet. Marble cracked.

The blow hadn't harmed this nightmare. Everard had the distinct impression that its physical size was unnecessary, an infinite addition to an incomprehensible, otherworldy existence. Shooting it wouldn't do shit.

Time had to be up by now. He couldn't remember what he was keeping time for, not against the buffeting of injected thoughts, the possibilities of his future strewn aside to make way for enslavement. But he knew he was counting down to something, and he knew he should find something to hang onto.

Everard dropped to his stomach, found the missing chunk of floor. It wasn't much, but it was the only spot to brace himself. He grabbed the edge with a grip made strong from holding jigsaws steady and loosening stubborn screws.

He waited. His self was diminutive, suspended miles between the edges of his mind. The thing ripped away each possible accomplishment from his future, cast them aside to drift and dissipate in the space claimed neither by the Periphery or the Central Nook.

The building lurched. The horror assaulting him jerked in pain, its empty corridor shoved aside by shifting space.

Its howled thoughts and emotions stuttered. Memories exploded back out to fill Everard's mind.

He remembered exactly why he needed to hold on, and he cursed as he realized ignorance may have been the only thing shielding him from complete panic. The elevator lurched again. The lights flashed back on, only for the bulbs to pop and fizzle as some powerbox somewhere crumpled and snapped.

The key on the Mariner's Box had wound down. The CEO's guess had been close; Bermuda had forged the box from the possessions of old ship captains and explorers. But it was from compass needles, not cannonballs. Bermuda had found the compasses of explorers like Columbus, Magellan, and Drake. He'd found the compass used by Christopher Jones to sail the Mayflower, and the one used by Christopher Newport to sail to what would become Jamestown.

Bermuda would have gone on listing names Everard didn't recognize if he hadn't cut him off. Compass needles were tiny. There had to be a thousand in that box.

And through whatever bent Bermuda possessed, he'd charmed the Mariner's Box. When its clockwork interior wound down, everything close to the box would experience what it was like to be a compass needle, pulled inexorably toward magnetic north. Only now, Bermuda had taken that attraction and magnified it exponentially. More than Everard had realized, as much as the building was moving. And Everard was right in the middle of it.

The darkness of the alien nook replaced the darkness of the busted light bulbs. The fury of the gargantuan horror washed over Everard as the Mariner's Box ripped away the thing's grip on Everard and the elevator. And then silence.

His head ached and his stomach still rolled, but he was in control of himself. Everard wiped his hands on his pants. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. The walls were cracked and crumpled, like a balled up and then smoothed out piece of paper.

The building creaked and moaned around him.

He jammed the button to open the doors but nothing happened. Everard tried to avoid thinking about the top floors jerked off the top of the building, then crumbling as they fell, his body being dashed on the ground and then crushed by falling debris.

Of course, the quick drop made that difficult.

Everything fell for a brief second, and then Everard smashed into the floor, losing his breath. He gasped for air.

Everard waited for the elevator to disappear again, for nothingness and its largest denizen to rip apart his mind, or to feel another rumble and then plummet sixty stories to the ground.

After a few seconds of not dying, Everard crawled to the doors.

His head throbbed, his stomach was a knot, his lungs ached, and nausea still hung on.

Although it was all worth it, knowing what he'd just done to Inc.

Now if he could get out of here alive, that'd be the cherry to top it off.

The doors wouldn't budge.

The elevator shifted, tossing him against the far wall, leaving the floor at an angle. The movement left a slight crack between the doors. Everard climbed up the sloped floor, squeezed his fingers inside, and pulled. Nothing.

He stepped back to aim the flintlock at the edge of the door. He fired, and the door inched closer to open. Whatever they'd used to reinforce the walls in here, they hadn't used on the door's runners. With a few more shots, he forced the door open enough to push himself through.

It looked like an earthquake had hit the building. Lines of dusty sunlight shone through splits in the walls and ceilings. Three-foot wide cracks in the floor divided the room.

Everard stepped carefully across the floor, testing each spot before putting his weight down. All the glass that had shielded the suits and the paralyzed men now lay shattered. The first two men were dead - one crushed by shifting walls, another gone, along with the floor of his cell. Everard peered down through the hole. His stomach leapt to his throat.

He could see sixty floors down to the city below. He was directly over the neighboring block, staring at the smaller buildings, scurrying pedestrians, and constant flow of cars.

Haphazard scaffolding of steel beams held the top floors up like the legs of a giant mechanical spider. Or maybe it was better to say a giant mechanical millipede, since there were hundreds and hundreds of supports, even more than seemed necessary.

The CEO and his lackeys must have made the supports appear in the same way he'd made the deadbolts appear. Everard wondered how much cash they had to burn for this trick.

Keeping his sight on the door to avoid looking down through the cracks, Everard kept on across the room. One of the next two prison cells was empty, although the floor was intact, so the man must have escaped. Inside the other, the prisoner still stood ramrod straight, paralyzed. His eyes met Everard's.

Everard needed to get out of here quick. Bowman or the CEO could show up at any moment, and given how he felt, Bowman wouldn't even need his lighter to take Everard down. But he couldn't abandon the poor guy trapped like that.

Everard went to his side, examined his constraints. No shackles or ropes or anything, just a needle stuck into his lower spine, hooked up to a wire that disappeared into the wall.

"Do I pull out the needle or cut the wire?" asked Everard.

He couldn't interpret the panicked stare.

"Cutting the wire sounds safer. I'll let someone who knows what they're doing mess with things jammed into your spine." Everard pulled out his utility tool. "I'm not going to accidentally kill you by doing this, am I?"

He didn't get an answer, if it were him, he'd rather chance death than remain stuck here. And Everard didn't exactly have time to stress out over this. He cut through the wire.

The man collapsed.

"Shit," said Everard, crouching to help him.

The man leapt up, propelling himself into the air, then fell back down. Again, he tried to stand, but only succeeded in hurling himself around.

"Hey buddy, calm down."

"Out!" he shouted.

Only a few minutes earlier, that massive nightmare had shoved Everard's consciousness into a tiny corner of his mind. Maybe this was what happened when you were stuck like that for a long time. You didn't know how much mental effort it took to perform simple actions, so when you tried to stand you jumped.

The newly freed man booked it for the door, stumbling and leaping like a wounded animal.

"Hey, let me help you," said Everard.

Before Everard could reach him, the man slipped on a dark spot, immediately went still. Everard ran to him, confused, since any blow that would knock him out would have been audible.

The dark spot was a crumpled up suit. How had it got all the way out here?

The man's arm was in the jacket sleeve up to his wrist. At first glance it appeared just an unlucky fall, but Everard had the idea it was worse than that.

The man twitched in little convulsions, jerked his arm down through the sleeve.

Everard grabbed the suit jacket, ready to yank it away, and then the man fluidly turn his head to smile at him.

"My sincerest thanks for your help. Won't you stay and let me introduce you to everyone?"

This wasn't the prisoner. It was the suit. Whatever the hell that meant, it was what the nightmare had shown him as his own future.

Inc wasn't a bunch of men wearing suits; it was suits wearing men.

Everard tried to pull the jacket off the prisoner, but it was too late. The man kicked Everard's feet out from under him. He slid towards a crack in the floor, held on at the last second. Wind passing under the floor and through the spider leg supports slipped up his pants legs to chill his sweat-soaked skin.

Everard rolled over in time to see the man readying a kick to his gut. He pulled the flintlock out of his belt and shot the man's ankle, sending him tumbling down to the bottom corner of the room.

Now that he knew these bodies were prisoners, he couldn't bring himself to really try to hurt them. He wondered how badly he'd hurt those guys in the lobby.

Jumping to his feet, Everard quickly ruled out rescuing this prisoner. Everard was too beat up and exhausted to wrestle him out of the jacket, at least in this unstable room with open pits every few feet.

"I'm sorry," he said, and ran for the door.

Surprisingly, it opened without resistance, if you didn't count it scraping against the now unlevel floor.

He raised the pistol, expecting the CEO or Bowman to be waiting for him, but the office was empty. The damage was as extensive here as in the other room, cracks in the floor, gashes in the walls. The openings in the floor mostly looked over the abandoned cubicles below.

Everard had to break down the deadbolted door with the flintlock.

He ran into the twisted stairwell.

Loretta sprinted up the last flight of stairs.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I came to break you out," she said.

"I'm already breaking out," Everard said. "You can help me run away."

They headed down, ignoring the creaks and moans of the damaged building.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Every step jolted Everard's already sore body. The invading presence was gone, but it had left nauseatingly vivid memories.

"What were you thinking?" spat Loretta. She led the way, leaping over a gap in the stairs. Sunlight poured in through a crack in the wall.

"That they had it coming," heaved Everard. He scrambled over the break in the stairs, not looking down at the expanse below.

"Wasps have it coming," said Loretta, "but I don't go around kicking every nest I can find."

The staircase evened out as they descended below the destruction of the Mariner's Box. Everard couldn't shake the feeling that the thing outside the elevator was now outside the stairwell. "I saw something in there."

Loretta stopped. "The Bloat?"

"The what?"

"It's hard to describe-"

"Yeah. That thing. What is it?"

Footsteps pounded up from below. Everard peered over the railing to see suits sprinting up the stairs.

"I'll explain once we get out of here. And you can explain how you're not dead."

"You killed their guy this morning," said Everard. "Can't you deal with these guys?"

Loretta looked up and down the stairwell, sizing up something. "He threatened my family, so I removed the threat. The CEO knows that's not an act of aggression." She climbed up onto the railing. "But if I attack his men in their own office building, that's starting a war."

Everard nodded. He wouldn't want to go to war against the thing outside the elevator, either. The Bloat.

"Climb onto my back."

A little emasculating, but he wasn't in a mood to argue.

"Wait." Loretta put a hand on his chest. She grabbed a fistful of Everard's shirt, rubbed it between two fingers. "Were you wearing this when you got here?"

"It's not from them, if that's what you're asking. I got away before they could put one of their suits on me. Barely."

She held his gaze. After a moment she must have seen what she wanted, because she let go.

The first suit came into view, lighter in hand.

Loretta stepped over the railing, still hanging on. "Okay, arms around my shoulder, ankles around my calves."

"Really?" She hadn't exactly been cuddly before.

The newcomer flicked his lighter to life.

"Nevermind, coming," said Everard. He wrapped himself around her like a kid riding piggyback. "Now what?"

Loretta pushed off into the empty space in the middle of the landing. Everard's stomach went to his throat. If he had anything left to vomit, he would have.

They fell faster, faster, and then their acceleration steadied. Each floor blurred by at a constant speed, quick, but slower than felt natural.

"Think you could slow us down before the bottom?" said Loretta.

Everard squeezed his eyes shut. He focused on them falling, on their speed. No. His will pushed against the mist. Their descent hiccuped, then continued on.

Loretta reached out to the railings, catching each with an open palm. It rang out as they descended the last few floors, and slowed them, minutely.

Right before hitting the bottom, Loretta pushed Everard off and said, "roll."

She hit the ground and rolled over her shoulder.

Everard attempted it but smashed into the tile floor with his upper arm. It hurt and would bruise, but at this point he was glad a bone hadn't snapped.

"Get up." Loretta grabbed his wrist to stand him up. "Let's go."

A lot of strength in a woman six inches shorter than him.

Everard stumbled through the empty foyer after Loretta. No bodies, so either Everard hadn't killed that guy, or they'd taken the corpse away.

Any other security must have headed to the top.

They ran outside. The body still hung from the tree. An SUV idled at the bottom of the steps, in the courtyard. Loretta jumped into the front seat, and he jumped into the back.

Brian was at the wheel. "Hey, man," he said, forced cheer in his tone. He threw it into drive and took off, jolting over the tiered courtyard before returning to the road. Bouncy pop music featuring a looping violin played from the speakers.

Everard lay sprawled in the back seat. "I didn't know you two were friends."

"She's letting me tag along."

From where he lay, Everard looked into the sky. Six hundred feet above, the top of Inc's tallest skyscraper stretched out away from its lower floors. Hundreds of steel beams spider-legged their way between the top floors and the ground. Brian drove between them. It made Everard think of being under some kind of bizarre pier.

"How'd they do that?" asked Everard.

"The same way they make ropes or anything else appear," said Loretta. "Only this time it was the CEO. He's got access to a lot more power."

"They get their power from that thing, don't they?"

"You saw the Bloat?" asked Brian. "What'd it look like?"

He pulled the SUV down a side street, away from Inc's building.

"I don't know," said Everard. "Big."

"How'd you get away?" asked Loretta.

"The Mariner's Box wound down."

"Bermuda let you use that?" said Loretta. "I'm impressed."

"I can be persuasive when I need to." Everard's false bravado melted away faster than he could force it into his tone. "Seriously though, what was that thing?"

"The Bloat," said Loretta. "A being from a nook far removed from ours."

Everard closed his eyes. Colonial cults and supernatural abilities were one thing. Interdimensional monsters were another.

The looping violin was getting a bit annoying, but Everard figured now wasn't the best time to pester Brian about it.

"Inc isn't people, is it?" asked Everard. "It's those suits controlling people."

Brian turned onto a main street, and blended into traffic. Everard avoided looking at the skyscrapers. Or at any other evidence of the Periphery.

"Only the top officers," said Loretta. "The cubicle drones are still people."

"Why do they do it? I saw people terrified to leave their desks, and that was only on one floor."

"They all want a chance to join the CEO," said Loretta. "Inc recruits corporate hotshots and bigwigs. People making millions of dollars. They go back to being cubicle drones, but now with the promise of ascending to the CEO's level."

"There's more than one CEO?"

"There's only one host at a time, but there's always several consciousnesses controlling him."

"You mean those losers I saw in their cubicles are all millionaires vying for a chance to stick their minds into a crowded suit? Why would they want that?"

"Power. Greed. General hedonism. The Bloat gives the CEO whatever he wants."

"Whatever they want," corrected Everard. "Why would they be willing to share?"

"I'm only speculating here, but I imagine they each plan on taking over. There was a rumor a few years ago of the CEO casting out a consciousness that had plans too extreme for even Inc."

"Into another suit?" That explained what happened to that extra host in the CEO's office.

"Could be. I don't know if he'd have the powers the Bloat gives the CEO if that was the case."

"Which are?"

"You haven't caught on yet? Inc buys their bent, one trick at a time. They're not burning that money—they're sacrificing it to the Bloat."

"He's the god of waste," said Brian. "Nuo Che wrote a song about it."

"Don't call it a god," said Loretta.

"Okay. He's the incomprehensible entity from beyond the Periphery that feeds off waste. Or gets off on it. Or is trying to spread it. He's connected somehow, is what I'm saying."

"That's why every time they use their bent there's way more than needed," realized Everard.

"That's what it seems like," said Loretta. "Although I haven't figured out whether the Bloat always delivers more power than necessary, or if the benter calls for more than needed, so the Bloat will think that's the right amount for the situation. Or maybe for the bill they're burning."

"Like working for the government," said Brian. "You use up your budget, so they don't send you less next year. What do you guys think of this song? At first the repetition was kinda boring, but it really grew on me."

"It's cool," said Everard. "Hey, when I was in there, I saw different things that might happen in my life. Like different futures. Then it felt like the Bloat sort of... consumed them. Do you know what that was about?"

"Are you asking if those futures are no longer a possibility?" asked Loretta.

"I think so. Yeah." He'd dumped Abby, but that didn't mean he was okay with her being erased entirely from his future.

"From what I understand," said Loretta, "that is how it works. It's wasting your potential. I'm sorry. Remember your life has billions of possibilities. If it took away the chance that you'd move to Paris and discover the cure for cancer, you could still end up moving to Rome and discovering it. See what I mean?"

Everard nodded. Was Abby Paris in this example? Or just that moment of them together that he'd seen? What had he lost?

"Where are we going?" he asked to distract himself.

"I'm taking you back to Bill Bill," said Loretta. "That'll finish up this emergency side job they hired me for."

Everard felt a sense of relief. Bill Bill and Mr. President had taken out the Lynch Mobbers like two avenging angels. If anyone could stand against the Bloat, it was them.

Shameful anger overshadowed the relief. He shouldn't need anyone to protect him. Regardless of Bill Bill's power, he couldn't actually keep his agreement. He couldn't protect Everard from Inc or Undone Duncan simply because he couldn't anticipate their every move.

Failure to push Inc back didn't take away the need to push Inc back. He still owed them a kick in the balls. Not that the Bloat had testicles.

Everard sat up to see out the window. They passed the cathedral-esque main building of Gallaudet University. "Are we on Florida Avenue?"

"Yessir," said Brian.

"That doesn't lead to the Capitol Building."

"Nossir."

"Bill Bill's not answering his phone," said Loretta, "but Bermuda informed me he's helping with the Barry Farm nook cleanup."

"I've got several friends supposed to be there," said Brian. "Didn't Inc organize that?"

"Must be the Burgesses fighting against them for the people's support," said Loretta.

Everard lay back down. He still needed to tell Loretta what the CEO had said about the booms, but that could wait until after he closed his eyes for a second.

He woke up to the SUV shutting off.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," sang Brian.

Everard crawled out of the backseat, stretching out the kinks in his back. Everything was still sore, and his stomach still a knot from vomiting. He must not have been asleep too long.

They'd parked on the cul-de-sac at the end of Douglass Place. It was packed with cars. Two-story brick apartments stood on either side, with manicured lawns juxtaposed against the cracked and potholed city-maintained street and sidewalks. Power lines sagged almost to the decorative young trees behind the crumbling curbs.

At the end of the cul-de-sac, concrete dividers, chainlink fence, and overgrown honeysuckle made way for an entrance into an empty lot.

"This way." Loretta entered without waiting.

Everard stayed close to her. Broken bottles and evidence of fire pits said this was a hangout spot for local youth. If it'd been popular for the homeless, there'd be lean-to's or nests of old clothes under the bushes.

Loretta led them to an abandoned building Everard didn't notice until they were on top of it. It was a shack framed with pine beams so dry they'd dissolve if you sneezed on them.

"Doesn't look up to code," said Everard.

Loretta walked inside. Brian shrugged at Everard, and they ducked inside.

Loretta was already going out the back. They hurried to catch up.

A chorus of conversation greeted him. At least eighty people now moved around the lot. Half were Burgesses, sweating in their wool britches and blouses. They worked in teams, each with a sucker fish-dog like Renae's.

Brian didn't seem to be reacting to it, so Everard let it go.

Everard spotted four suits with clipboards, and one with what looked like a Ghostbusters proton pack, vacuuming a picket fence.

The rest of the crowd looked like Barry Farms locals. They were assisting the cleanup teams, or arguing about where to go next. Among them Everard spotted Lucy, who'd traded her red dress for overalls, and Fiametta Vine, the plump woman from the faction meeting, who was carrying lemonade around to the workers.

The lot itself had transformed. It was bigger, for starters. Now it was at least the size of a football field. Four Dutch Colonial houses lined one side, a farmed field took up one corner, and a five-story apartment building took the remaining corner. Down the center were little one-story buildings that housed shops or restaurants.

It looked like one of those uppity "villages" they built in the suburbs that were supposed to provide the walkability of urban living without the poverty and crime, if one had been built in the late 1800s.

Everard squinted at the apartment building. Each floor seemed to be made from a different material, but he couldn't get a good look. Something kept blocking his view.

It wasn't just the apartments. Waverings in the air warped the view everywhere, refracting light wherever he looked. The sun shone down brighter here, now that he thought about it, and the view of the city beyond Barry Farms was blurred.

He coughed. Something acrid in the air.

"We're back in the Periphery, aren't we?"

"What tipped you off?" asked Brian.

"Keep an eye on him." Loretta took off toward a team of Burgesses. "I'm going to find Bill Bill."

Everard knew he should have taken offense, but instead he wondered if Brian could protect him as well as Loretta. He made sure the suits weren't looking his way.

"It's the Barry Farm nook," said Brian.

"Appropriately named."

"The Periphery set it aside for the freed slave Denizens at the same time the U.S. government set the topside Barry Farm aside for topsider freed slaves."

A man in dusty jeans and a button up shirt who'd been arguing with one of the suits noticed Everard and Brian.

Everard took a keen interest in the ground.

"You two here to help out? Here." He handed them each an aerosol can of insecticide. That's what the acrid smell was.

"I think we're just stopping by," said Everard.

Brian shook his can. "Nah, we'll lend a hand."

"Go see if that cashburner needs help." As he turned to point at the suit, an eye beneath his ear blinked open. It was bulbous and shiny, a metallic blue without pupil or iris. Its gaze darted from Everard to Brian to the other people around.

"What is that?" breathed Everard.

"That's what you're keeping away from the cashburner." He scratched at the eye. More opened up on his cheek, the base of his neck, the back of his hand. "They're coming through from beyond the Periphery. Probably pushed out by NSA explorers. There's one now."

Something buzzed into view. It looked like a long dragonfly biting its own tail. Three sets of wings stuck out from the center of the glistening loop, and kept the bug in the air despite not connecting to its actual body. It revolved in lurches as it flew.

Brian sprayed it. Sparkling greens faded to gray and the bug plopped to the dirt. The body bounced away from the wings. "Nasty," he said.

"You're telling me," said the man. "They lay eggs directly into your nervous system. Some Hexer obsessed with bugs tried to tell me it's a symbiotic relationship. Listen, I don't need extra eyes. It's all bright and flashy anyways. I keep them closed so they don't give me a headache. And smelling pheromones tells me more about you than I want to know."

"So, uh." Everard sprayed the dead bug once more for good measure. "Don't let them touch us?"

He blinked twenty times over. "Nope." He walked off, flipping through his clipboard.

"Who was that?" asked Everard.

"Couldn't tell you. Probably from the Parks family. They've been in Barry Farm for a century. If anybody refused to leave once that outer nook started bleeding in, it'd be them." Brian shook his can. "Let's go play exterminator."

Everard kept his head down as they passed the suits in charge. "What do you mean, 'once that outer nook started bleeding in?'"

"Like the man said, these bugs and all this," Brian gestured at the distortions, "pushed through from some nook beyond the Periphery."

"Where the NSA has been exploring." Everard finished the thought.

"Who knows," said Brian. "Inc's trying to bolster support with these sorts of projects. The Burgesses show up in greater numbers to try to take credit for it all. All while the Folkmeisters point out if it'd been a wealthy nook, or even a predominantly white nook, there'd have been a cleanup project years ago."

They reached the suit with the backpack vacuum.

"We're your backup," said Brian.

He grunted. "Keep those little shits off me. I don't want to end up looking like that asshole over there." He ran the wand to the vacuum along a fence. All the way down, the pickets bent and shimmied. When the wand touched them, they returned to a steady, straight shape.

"He seemed nice enough," said Everard.

A rolling dragonfly drew near. Everard hesitated as it landed on the back of the suit's collar. Brian sprayed it. He eyed Everard and punched his shoulder. "Don't be a dick," he whispered.

"Sure, he's nice enough," said the suit. "Still an asshole. You gotta be an asshole to spend your whole life in this rural shit hole."

Everard sprayed a bug that flew towards Brian. He was understanding now how Inc could devote so many resources to bettering the people's lives, and still struggle to win their hearts and minds.

"It might have its percs," suggested Brian. "Anyways, that farm keeps the Folkmeister's remedies cheap."

"Inc doesn't need those." The hum of the vacuum wavered. The suit smacked the wand and it continued on.

"Then why are you here?" asked Everard.

"I do what I'm told."

"Why is Inc here at all?" Another bug rolled by. Everard sprayed behind it, shepherding it towards the suit.

Brian killed it.

"To help out."

"Bullshit," said Everard.

The suit chuckled. He glanced over his shoulder at Everard. "You don't believe Inc could be doing this out of the goodness of our hearts?"

"You won't have a heart once you get promoted," said Everard.

"I'll have access to one." The suit straightened another picket. "You're obviously accusing us of being disingenuous. Why not just say exactly what you think we're up to?"

"Take it easy," breathed Brian.

"I don't think you're up to anything. You're following orders like a good little drone. But from what I'm told, somebody up the chain has started a goodwill campaign. You've already got money, so now you want power. My guess is the CEO is too vain to accept that the people chose the Burgesses over you, and now he's changed your entire company vision to get revenge. Is it still even the company you signed on with?"

The vacuum cut off. The suit looked Everard up and down. "You don't know your history."

Everard had tried to repeat what he'd heard. Maybe he'd got something wrong. But he'd pushed a button with the suit, which meant the suit at least feared something in what he said was correct.

He latched onto a new idea. If he couldn't hit Inc back through force, maybe he could help take away what they wanted.

"Hey, let's just focus on the cleanup," said Brian.

"Valid point." Everard returned the stare. "The important thing is that we're all helping."

He sprayed the air between them.

The suit glared and turned back to the fence.

Everard opened his mouth to revel in his smug victory. Brian shot insecticide into it.

He coughed, spit out the bitter taste. It tingled and burned on his tongue. "What the hell?"

"You talk too much sometimes." Brian scanned the air for bugs. "Sorry, that was an impulsive decision."

Everard scratched at his tongue. "That's disgusting."

"Sorry. Shouldn't have done that." Brian waved at Fiametta Vine, who brought over lemonade.

"Wonderful to see you again." She smiled ear to ear at Everard, genuinely, then said conspiratorially, "are you still excited to meet your sister?"

Everard took a cup from her tray and downed it. "Thrilled."

"You have to let me know how that goes." She offered lemonade to the suit, who shook his head. Brian took one, and she gasped. "Oh, I'm so thoughtless. Forgive me, won't you? You poor thing, you must still be grieving. I loved Renae."

"Thanks." Brian grimaced from behind his lemonade.

It wasn't right, making the kid show grief in public. Even if Fiametta meant well.

Loretta stormed up to them. "He's all yours," she said to Brian, then headed off.

Everard followed, with Brian on his heels. "What'd Bill Bill say?"

"Nothing’s changed. Brian teaches you until you complete your deal with Bill Bill."

Everard knew that look of frustration. "He didn't pay you, did he? Or he postponed it."

Loretta stopped behind the shack. "If you can actually pull off your plan of walking away from the Periphery, do it."

That took Everard by surprise. "I will. You're still keeping an eye on my friends, right?"

"The Burgesses pay late, but they always pay. I'm not going back on my word."

"Where are you going now?"

"To finish the job they originally hired me for."

"Proving Inc is funding Undone Duncan?"

"Technically figuring out what the booms are, but it looks like I'll end up proving that, yes."

"I want in."

"No."

"I owe them one."

"You ripped apart their building!"

"You said it yourself—I kicked a wasp nest. And I didn't squash a single wasp. I don't think I can, but at the very least I can keep the wasps from fulfilling their little waspy desires."

"Your metaphor's getting away from you."

"They want power. They want the people's support. I help you prove they're funding criminals, I take that smirk off Bowman's face."

"I hate that smirk. But I don't need your help."

"I'm not saying you do. But I need to help. Bill Bill's protection is only worthwhile when I'm standing next to him. Freaks are going to keep coming after me unless I make them afraid to. Taking Inc down a couple notches might do that."

Loretta tapped her lip. "Still no. I don't know if I can keep you alive. Then Bill Bill would probably refuse to pay me for rescuing you earlier."

"You didn't rescue me. I was already running away." Everard took a breath. "Fine. We'll play it this way. I never told you what the CEO said about the booms. You want to know, you help me find proof."

"He must not have told you much if we'd still need to find proof."

"It's a lead you don't have yet."

Loretta ran her fingers through her hair.

Everard pushed a little harder where he'd seen a weakness. "Bowman hates me. Think of the look on his face when he learns that I helped take them down."

Loretta's mouth curled into a half smile. "I'd like to see that."

"So I'm in?"

Loretta chewed on her lip while she thought about it. "If you die, it's not on me."

"Deal. Wait. If I die, you still keep an eye on my friends. Just long enough to make sure no one's interested in them."

"Clearly." Loretta stepped into the shack. "Go get Brian. He's still your handler."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Back in the SUV, Everard told Loretta what the CEO had said about the booms both pushing and pulling.

"How can you both pull and push people?" Brian started the engine and turned on a hectic pop song.

"Maybe that's why it felt like it was ripping me apart," said Everard.

"No," said Loretta. "Probably different targets. Luring someone but forcing someone else out. Did you get the CEO to admit who they're targeting?"

"It'd be the Burgesses, right?" said Brian. "I mean, that's the obvious answer."

"Maybe." Loretta took out her phone. "Shadow left me a message. Start driving."

A boom shook the city.

The cars around them all braked. Everard was getting tired of all this weird Periphery shit.

"Definitely getting more frequent," said Loretta. "Although I still haven't felt what you described happening in Undone Duncan's workshop."

"Maybe it's building up to it," said Everard.

"That's... actually a possibility," conceded Loretta.

While Brian drove out of Barry Farm and through Anacostia, Everard started testing out his bent.

He stared at his seatbelt buckle. That familiar mental mist gathered, and he felt his will focus into a spear. "No," he said aloud. The spear shot through the mist. The buckle popped open. "Hey. I did it."

Brian looked over his shoulder. "Now do it consistently, and then we'll move on to deny things that actually matter."

Loretta hushed them.

Everard reattached the buckle. He tried again. It didn't work. What had he done differently? Or maybe he was only free enough from authority that his bent was sporadic.

"Here." Loretta handed him her phone. "Shadow wants a word."

He took it. "Hello?"

"I hear you've been getting in all sorts of trouble."

"Sort of. What can I do for you?"

Loretta pointed Brian towards downtown.

"Straight to the point. Aren't you a man's man?"

Everard waited for an answer.

"My brother would like to invite you to a little soiree this evening. He tells me that everyone who's anyone will be there. Sounds like a bunch of stiffs to me, but it's the first time he's invited people over in years. I might stick around inside long enough to laugh at their drama."

"Drama?"

"I'm talking Nuo Che, Fiametta Vine, Peter Miller... you don't have any idea who these people are, do you?"

"Fiametta Vine gave me some lemonade twenty minutes ago."

"Look at you, rolling with the who's who of the D.C. Factions. With that lemonade, I bet your bruises are already fading."

They were. First useful thing to come out of the Periphery insanities so far. "That's amazing."

"She's the rector of the NoGoes, what did you expect?"

"Not lemonade." Everard pressed on his cheek where the reskinned had hit him yesterday. It felt fine. "Tell your brother I'll try to make it."

"Whoa now," said Shadow. "Under no circumstances should you actually come. He thinks you were impersonating him."

"Thanks for the warning."

"I'm serious."

"And I wasn't serious about being there."

"Oh. Right. You know, you just might survive down here."

"Thanks for the ringing endorsement."

"Don't thank me until you live through where Loretta's about to take you. Talk later, now. Don't be a stranger." Shadow ended the call.

"Did the Ailuromancer invite you for cocktails?" asked Loretta.

"Maybe don't make it to that one," said Brian.

"I'm not planning on it. Where are we going?"

"U Street," said Loretta. "I had Shadow use his cats to look for the barrel-and-wire setup you saw in the Junk Shoals. They've found three so far. Closest one's at U Street."

"I told you." Maybe now more people would listen to him.

"I'll make sure you get a medal."

They drove back up to Florida Avenue, and took that towards the center of the city. Everard closed his eyes and ignored the frantic pop melodies that Brian apparently enjoyed.

It was the early part of rush hour, so their progress was slow. The sun had passed its peak and was shining directly through the windshield. As the made it closer to downtown, the blocks became more cramped. Row houses or apartments were tucked more and more tightly together.

In traditional D.C. style, the character of the city changed almost block by block. One row of houses would be well kept with clean, smooth sidewalks, while the next would have cracked paint and decaying porches, with trash bags thrown by the stoop.

Florida turned directly west and became U Street. Trendy shops and restaurants started appearing, including a taco bar with a storefront made from a steel storage container. The sign above read "El Rey de Sinaloa."

Everard's stomach grumbled. He hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Three blocks later, Loretta said, "Find a place to park."

Brian turned onto 13th and found a spot. They hopped out. Everard tucked the flintlock into his belt. Traffic rumbled by. Loretta led them around the corner, past a red brick Victorian row house.

"Where is this supposed to be?" Everard watched the driver of each car.

"Somewhere around the Lincoln Theater."

"Pretty busy area to hide something like that," said Everard. In addition to the steady traffic, there were a dozen or so pedestrians in sight.

"Could be in a small nook," said Brian. "The Perforated Woman does some wild stuff with bending space."

"Shadow said it's topside. But cats aren't real great with directions."

"Speaking of bending space," said Everard, "what's with the second Washington Monument?"

The Lincoln Theater was a tan brick building with hints of Greco design that were overshadowed by the red accented box office. If any shows were playing today, they weren't starting any time soon.

"What are you talking about?" Loretta led them down the alleyway. "Let's we'll take a look around back."

"As long as you don't suggest splitting up," said Brian.

Down the alleyway, the walls were painted with murals of Obama and Bill Cosby. Around the back of the theater was a parking lot, opening up into V Street.

Everard spotted it first, since he already knew what to look for. In the last spot, next to a concrete divider, was a fifty-gallon steel drum, with wires looping in and out like a tangle of hair around a brush.

"That's it," said Everard. "That's what I saw."

Loretta opened her palm to stop them. "Undone Duncan wouldn't leave it undefended. One of his gangs has to be around here."

"More Lynch Mobbers?" asked Everard. "Or reskinned?"

"Could be anybody," said Brian.

"Keep an eye out for a second." Loretta sent a text. "I want Bermuda over here. He'll be able to tell us about the machine."

There were fewer pedestrians on V Street, but enough that it took Everard a moment to notice the cloaked woman. She wore a green cloak spotted with glistening jewel stars. She turned into the parking lot, revealing a red dress underneath the cloak, and a skull mask covering her face.

Everard's stomach dropped. He pushed away thoughts of roaming perforations in skin, or incomprehensible entities. Maybe she was just a lady in a mask.

He doubted it. He wrapped his fingers around the grip of the flintlock. "Hey guys."

Loretta and Brian looked up.

Brian moaned. "Why'd it have to be Narco Saints?"

"What's a Narco Saint?" asked Everard. "Are they worse than Lynch Mobbers?"

"It'll be fine." Loretta stretched her fingers like she was in an Old West duel. "Just stay behind me. Keep an eye out for anyone with a gun."

"Perfect," muttered Everard. He'd gotten himself into a shitshow, and there didn't seem to be any way to prove Inc was involved.

"Santa Muerte." Loretta addressed the cloaked woman, who stepped in front of the barrel. "You get one chance to walk away. I'll even turn down the inevitable job offer to bring down your Narco Saints."

Santa Muerte laughed. It was disdainful, and human. Maybe she was just a woman in a mask. When she spoke it was a thicker accent than Loretta. "You are a traitor to la Raza."

"Soy Cubana."

"Peor. Tu familia no tiene de comer mientras que estas aqui engordandote."

Everard and Brian exchanged a confused look. Everard casually stepped to the side so he'd have a clear shot around Loretta. He stepped in something sticky.

Despite Santa Muerte's increasing anger, Loretta remained calm. "No eres ningun Robin Hood."

Blood pooled at Everard's feet, bubbling up from the concrete. No, not at Everard's feet. At Loretta's. He stood in the outskirts blood lake that spawned beneath Loretta's heels.

"Yo no," said Santa Muerte. "Pero ellos, si."

A decayed corpse burst up from the blood. Everard stumbled backwards. Bullet holes pockmarked its jacket and trousers, revealing grayed skin and wounds beneath. A quarter of its forehead was gone, now only rotting gore, where a bullet had come in from behind. Its eyes dissolved decades ago, now two coins floated inside the sockets, darting about as if connected to ocular nerves.

Loretta only had time to gasp before the corpse wrapped its arms around her and pulled her into the crimson puddle.

The empty parking lot suddenly felt exposed. Blood seeped up from the cracked concrete in twenty other places.

Everard drew the pistol. Brian's music erupted from his speaker. Darts of lights flashed into the air to dance toward Brian in a syncopated rhythm.

"What the hell just happened?" Everard pointed the pistol at Santa Muerte. "Is she dead?"

Did he need to start running and not stop until he was in a different hemisphere?

"I don't know." Brian's breaths came short and quick. The happy irony in his voice that had been replaced with forced happy irony since Renae's death had now decayed into a monotone drone. "If she is, her dead man's switches are about to kill everyone she's ever worried might threaten her family."

Santa Muerte called across the lot. "I might have taken her up on her offer if she hadn't brought you along, rebellist. But you're too valuable."

Everard reached into his pocket and started his phone recording video. He hoped it would pick up Santa Muerte's voice over Brian's music. "Too valuable to who?"

"What are you doing?" hissed Brian.

"Don't play dumb," said Santa Muerte. "The Narco Saints are loyal to Undone Duncan."

Shit. So much for an accidental confession that Inc was involved.

The puddles of blood bubbled and spread.

"You should embrace it," said Santa Muerte. "Every gang in the city will report to you, once you're at the Cursed Strongman's side."

Everard raised the flintlock and fired.

Those same dead arms reached up to pull Santa Muerte down through a pool of blood.

The beam of condensed sound shot through the empty air where she'd been standing and smashed a dent into the door of a parked car. A man in a suit looked at Everard in horror then turned tail and ran.

Shit. He had to worry about collateral damage. Now he wished he was in the Periphery.

The corpse hauled Santa Muerte up through blood at the edge of the theater's back wall. It dove back in.

The Narco Saints leader took cover around the corner of the wall.

Everard blew a chunk of brick out of the wall.

"What's the plan?" Brian glowed like a Christmas tree on cocaine, hundreds of thousands of multicolored pinpricks of light covering his body.

The corpse popped out of another blood pool, pulling up another corpse onto the ground, then disappearing again. This one was even more decayed, a tattered robe hanging over muscle and bone. Beneath its coin eyes, its lips had been pulled forward and spikes driven through to seal its mouth.

Everard tried to think up a plan through his revulsion. "We could fight them off so we can study the machine."

The new corpse pointed at Everard, and his voice shattered. His lips and tongue moved freely but his vocal chords produced no sound.

"I'm down," said Brian in his empty tone.

No. The corpse had cut short Everard's plan. They could fight off the Narco Saints if Loretta crawled back out of one of those blood puddles. Otherwise, they should try a few more times to get a confession about Inc, then get the hell out of dodge.

Too late.

Brian turned up the speaker volume. He danced toward Santa Muerte and the muted corpse, the light gathering in his fists.

Everard tried to get his attention. He'd had enough of confronting these freaks head on, didn't think he could handle it again.

Brian spun around. A cord of light lashed out, connected with the corpse's leg, ripped it off.

Frustration turned to fury over being forced into yet another insane situation. With a growl of rage, Everard fired the flintlock, striking the corpse in the chest, sending it pitching down through a blood pool.

In rapid succession, the first corpse brought up three men armed with automatic pistols. Brian's light disarmed them, but the Narco Saints' rank-and-file kept popping up like a bloody game of whack-a-mole.

Everard grabbed Brian's shirt to yank him to cover behind a dumpster.

"Don't kill the rebellist," shouted Santa Muerte.

Everard pressed his back against the cool steel of the dumpster. It smelled rancid. He glanced around the edge. The gang members were fanning out, forming a half-circle around the dumpster.

"I liked your first plan better." Brian leapt out of their cover.

Everard shouted silently. The kid was going for some pointless sacrificial act, following after his sister. Maybe he saw it as penance for not preventing Renae's death.

The Narco Saints had sights on every escape route. The bare parking lot offered no cover aside from this dumpster. Everard could try to sprint back to the alley, but he'd have to drag Brian, and that would leave exposed for too long.

Why wasn't the gang telling them to surrender, or to drop their weapons? He thought both Inc and Undone Duncan wanted him alive.

Bits of color snapped into being around Brian in time to the music, larger and in greater numbers than before, whether from the volume of the music or something inside Brian, Everard didn't know. Instead of drawing them inside himself, they formed haphazard arching over Brian, then started to spin. The cage of lights turned to a blur.

The humid summer air turned sweltering.

Without warning, the Narco Saints opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off Brian's shield as he danced inside it.

"Oh hell," said Everard. He was in it now, no matter what happened. He reached out from the dumpster and fired, hitting one thug squarely in the chest. The impact knocked him to the ground, but he immediately crawled back to his feet and got back into his position in the shrinking half circle. "Oh hell."

The song reached a crescendo, paused, and then dropped into a heavy, full rhythm. With the drop, any inhibition in Brian's dancing disappeared. The air around him lit up like fireworks. He drew the light inside himself, sent streamers of green sparks at each Narco Saint, into their guns. Half dropped their weapons as they glowed hot.

Sweat dripped into Everard's eyes. He fired again, this time catching a thug in the knee. Bone cracked and the thug fell but instead of writhing in pain he sat straight and continued firing at Brian.

"Goddammit!" shouted Everard. These freaks always had some bullshit trick to keep coming.

A third corpse shot up from the bloody concrete. Clods of mud clung to its clothes and gray flesh. Dents in the decayed skin looked like the thing had been stoned to death.

It beckoned with both hands. The flintlock was ripped from Everard's grip, and Brian's music stopped.

The corpse held the speaker, pistol, and Everard's phone.

Brian struck with most of the remaining light, decapitating the corpse. It collapsed.

Santa Muerte strode through her Narco Saints.

Brian stared impassively.

"Shoot him," she said.

Everard tried to deny it too late.

The shot struck Brian in the cheek. His neck jerked backwards. The few light specks left dropped to the ground like shattered glass.

Everard groaned, reached for his friend.

"Get the rebellist," ordered Santa Muerte.

The gang opened fire. Their rounds pinged through the steel dumpster. Everard covered his head, tried fruitlessly to deny their weapons, and thought how he should have brought Abby to meet Liz.

With a moan, Brian sat up.

Hope flooded back into Everard, and with it, the hollow memory of dumping Abby. Stupid to think about that now. He needed his bent to work. He needed Loretta to show back up.

Brian's jawbone was already purple, and blood poured from his mouth, carrying fragments of tooth. At the center of the wound on his cheek, the bullet had splatted against his skin like a gel. He pulled his belt out of its loops.

The hell are you doing? Everard couldn't yell.

Brian looked at Everard with a mix of apology and apathy. He wrapped the belt around his wrists and ankles, then pulled it tight with his teeth. The bullet had stolen control of his body, forced him to tie himself up.

The poor kid. He'd just wanted to do the Burgesses a favor.

The Narco Saints advanced on the dumpster, only a few feet away from flanking him.

Loretta wasn't going to save them.

Everard couldn't remember what thoughts he'd had when he'd denied the Lynch Mobber's rifle, but the emotion was clear: belligerent rage, the same thing he felt now.

He thought of the chambers and magazines of the guns. He didn't know the weapons well enough to visually picture the details, but he held firm to the idea.

No.

His will pushed through thick mist. The gunfire ceased.

Everard peeked around the dumpster. The Narco Saints shook their guns or banged on the grips.

He ran to Brian's side to undo the belt.

"Look out!" hissed Brian, fighting for control of even his tongue.

Everard turned to see a thug advancing on him with a baseball bat. He tried to deny his balance. The mental mist held tight around him.

The thug swung the bat at Everard's head. He got his arm up to absorb part of the blow, but it still knocked him senseless.

The world went blurry. Santa Muerte yelled orders in Spanish. Warm, sticky concrete pressed against his cheek while his head spun. Where was Loretta?

Chapter Twenty-Six

Five or thirty minutes later, his eyes beginning to focus again, Everard heard the tapping of leather soles.

"You're more trouble than your worth."

Bowman squatted next to him. Two blurry suits stood behind him.

Everard knew he was in danger, but it was a loose idea, still coalescing. He sat up, the most difficult thing he'd done all day.

"The CEO would like another word with you." Bowman grabbed Everard's shoulder to force him to his feet. Dizziness sent him crashing back down, Bowman unable to catch him.

Everard grunted. His vocal chords still wouldn't function. He tried to spit at Bowman. It dribbled down his chin.

The sense of danger formed into full thought. He wasn't going back to the Bloat. He clung to the idea of Bowman's balance, tried denying it. The heavy weight around his mind held down his will.

He growled in frustration.

Bowman laughed. "Not so tough without Loretta backing you up."

No wonder his one-man-raid on 12 Corcoran hadn't left an impression. They thought Loretta had caused the damage. Probably still thought their stupid floor safe had kept them safe from the Mariner's Box.

Bowman's smug face snapped into focus. "Get on your feet."

"What do we do with the other guy?" asked one of the other suits.

"Let Undone Duncan have him," said Bowman. "Maybe a dancing reskinned will keep him satisfied with his station in life for a few more weeks."

The Narco Saints murmured at the insult.

"Deal with it or get deported," spat Bowman.

The other two suits lifted Everard to his feet. He fought, but was too dizzy to defend himself.

"Let's go." Bowman suddenly stood face-to-face with Bermuda.

The Burgess held his black tricornered hat over his chest. He sweated profusely through his wool coat and britches. He cleared his throat. His voice wavered as he resolutely stated, "Inc doesn't have the authority to arrest Denizens."

Bowman pointed at the other suits. "Leave. Don't let anyone else see you."

They dropped Everard and jogged off. Everard caught himself on his knees.

Once they were out of sight, Bowman said, "I'm deciding whether to let you live, and let it be your word against mine, or cover my bases and let the Narco Saints drag you down to their little hell."

"Anacostia ain't no hell, you asshole," said a thug.

Bowman ignored him. He drew his lighter and a hundred.

Bermuda placed his hat on his head, revealed what he'd been holding behind it. A screwdriver.

Bowman hesitated. "What's that? What break did you give it?"

"It's a screwdriver," said Bermuda.

Everard laughed out loud. His voice was returning.

"I know that," said Bowman, and then someone shot him in the back.

Bowman crumpled on the ground and began tying himself up.

Santa Muerte screamed at the Narco Saints as they frantically accused each other.

Bermuda grabbed Everard and Brian and dragged them towards cover.

A Narco Saint's head jerked backwards, then his feet went out from under him. Another was yanked into the air by his ankle, then slammed against the theater's brick wall.

Bermuda pulled Everard and Brian behind the dumpster.

The thugs screamed and bones crunched. Santa Muerte screamed in Spanish, and someone unleashed a hail of gunfire.

Everything went silent.

Brian shook his head and looked around. "What's going on? Somebody let me out of this. Is this my belt?"

Footsteps around the side of the dumpster.

Loretta walked into view. "Thanks for the distraction, Bermuda."

"Did you even need it?" asked Everard.

"It kept Bowman from seeing me." Loretta helped Everard to his feet. "I want him to see you, though. Go rough him up a little, and send him on his way."

"Are you serious?"

"That's why I let you tag along."

"Won't the cops be here soon?"

"We're not in the Periphery, but they've likely set up a shield to keep people from seeing what's going on in the lot."

Everard steadied himself on the dumpster. "I think I have a concussion."

"And I'm still tied up," said Brian.

Bermuda untied Brian.

"Go chase him off," said Loretta. "We'll deal with your concussion after we handle the initial reason we came here."

"Wonderful." Everard rubbed at his forehead, heading out to threaten the agent of an otherworldly monstrosity.

Everard admired the scene before him. The pools of blood shrank, disappearing into themselves. A Narco Saint lay at an unnatural angle at the base of the wall. Two more were dead, their blood smeared between the puddles.

Santa Muerte was tied up next to the wired barrel. The hood of the jewel-studded, green cloak had slipped off her head, revealing light brown hair pulled tight by the strap of the skull mask. She watched him silently through the eyeholes.

Bowman struggled against his own belt. The effect of the bullet had worn off, but he tied himself up so effectively now he couldn't get out. Loretta had blindfolded him with his own tie.

Everard walked up, slapped his boots on the concrete.

Bowman stopped struggling. "That wasn't you who attacked me."

"You sure? You've never gone toe-to-toe with a rebellist before me." There was no way Bowman had fought Bill Bill or Mr. President.

"You couldn't even stand up."

"It was an act." Everard checked Bowman's pockets for his lighter. Loretta must have taken it. He checked again, then took his billfold to be safe. And because it was $1200.

"Petty thievery, now?"

"No it's not. It's covering my back."

"You're taking my money. That's the definition of thievery."

"Then I'll deny that definition. I'm a rebellist."

"I can't believe the CEO wants you."

Everard took a step back. He hadn't yet wrapped his mind around the fact that the Bowman he knew wasn't the body in front of him. It was the suit possessing the body. He imagined the prisoner at the top floor of 12 Cocoran, free for a moment and then possessed by that suit.

"I was going to let you go," said Everard, "but that was mean."

He flipped Bowman over to pull off his suit jacket.

There was arguing behind the dumpster and then Bermuda ran over. "No, don't do that."

"Why the hell not? He's got control of this guy's body."

"It'll trigger an all out war between the Burgesss and Inc."

"I just beat the shit out of him. What about that?"

"Think of it as desecrating their temple, burning their flag, or raping their mothers."

Everard hesitated. "What if they deserve it?"

"Of course they deserve it," said Bermuda. "But the attack this morning will be nothing compared to what you'll bring. There will be a hundred people grieving like Brian."

Starting a war and then ducking out of it might be the perfect way to be left alone. Everard felt like a dick even noticing the possibility. He could never do something like that.

Maybe he could convince himself to kill Bowman, but unless he removed the suit first, he'd be killing the host, too.

He let go of Bowman's jacket.

"Here's what I'm going to do instead." Everard kicked the suit in the ribs. He dug through the pockets and took Bowman's phone. "You walk back to your broken skyscraper, say hello to your flabby god for me, and tell the CEO that I kicked your ass a third time. Maybe that'll get him to leave me alone."

Bowman wheezed. "He wants you too much."

Everard untied him. "What if I burn the suit off him?" he asked Bermuda.

"No."

Bowman took off his blindfold. He straightened his lapels and adjusted his cufflinks. "Don't stay too long. Can't you feel the next boom building? You already know what it feels like when you're close."

He walked down the alley toward U Street.

Everard tried to get into Bowman's phone, but it was locked down tight.

Brian and Loretta joined them in the lot. The blood pools had dissipated, leaving only the red smears from the three dead Narco Saints.

It was disgusting. No one cared about a few gang bangers dying, but you defend yourself against a parasite in a suit and suddenly you're threatening the fabric of society.

Bermuda picked up the flintlock. Everard didn't see his phone.

"We've probably got ten minute before Bowman gets in contact with the rest of Inc," said Loretta. "Is that enough time to take a look at this thing?"

Bermuda grunted. "We'll see."

Everard and Brian hung back while Bermuda and Loretta inspected the wired barrel.

Santa Muerte watched silently, her arms bound in her lap. A pistol appeared in her hand.

"Look out!" Everard yelled.

Loretta looked at her. Santa Muerte's wrist snapped. The gang leader dropped her pistol and gasped at the pain.

"What'd you do?" asked Everard.

"She's a programmer," said Bermuda.

"That's what Brian said. I don't know what that means. I just know everyone's afraid of her."

"It means she's found a nook that influences our reality. She goes there and uses her bent to write programs that reshape aspects of the world around her."

"So why don't you just rewrite it so the booms aren't happening?"

"It's only small things," said Loretta. "And even those take forever. It took me seven months to write the code to lower my terminal velocity. Three years to make people's vision bend around me."

"No one tweaks reality without a price," said Bermuda. "Yours is getting rid of authority. Loretta's price is plain old hours put in."

Everard didn't ask how long to write the program that broke people's bones. He wondered what focusing so long on inflicting that kind of pain would do to a person.

"It costs more than my time," said Loretta.

The energy in the air practically hummed.

"Bowman said another boom's about to happen." Everard's gut twinged at the memory of the pain he'd felt in the Junk Shoals. "He was right about not wanting to be close."

Bermuda followed a wire with his fingers, tracing it down to the barrel.

"Can you feel it?" asked Loretta. "The pressure in the air is growing."

"If we were right about it building to something, it might be even stronger this time," said Everard, "I really think we should take off."

Everard looked to Brian for support, but his eyes were glued to his shoes.

Bermuda got down on his stomach to look under the barrel. "It's certainly the Perforated Woman's handiwork."

"Anything that links it to Inc?"

"Not that I can see." Bermuda pried the barrel up from the concrete an inch. "That's interesting. It's got a power cable going into the ground."

"Where's it go?" asked Everard.

"Gotta be into the Periphery," said Bermuda. "That's a zinc alloy cable. It transfers gathered atmospheric energy. Not something you can plug in to the D.C. power grid."

The air felt heavier on Everard's skin. "I just felt it."

Santa Muerte giggled. "You can't stop us."

Loretta didn't even turn around. "Your three friends over there disagree."

"Not to mention the dead guys we ripped up," said Everard.

"El Soldado will put them back together." The folds of her red dress shuffled with her laughter. "Can't say the same about your guts once the Perforated Woman's symphony reaches its crescendo."

"Yeah?" said Everard. "Why don't you tell us more about it?"

Santa Muerte mimed zipping the lips of the skull mask. "I have a better idea. You tell me all about Abby."

Everard's stomach dropped.

Loretta turned around. "Where did you find that name?"

Everard threw Santa Muerte onto her back. He ripped off her mask, revealing a plain face. She smirked.

"How do you know about her?" He slammed her shoulders against the ground.

Loretta lifted Everard off of her, unnaturally strong. "You hired me to handle this."

"No!" He slipped out of Loretta's grip. "She's threatening Abby! How do you know about her?"

His phone fell out of the folds of Santa Muerte's dress. He'd unlocked it when he started recording, so she'd had easy access to his recent calls and texts. She probably knew about Liz, too.

"Let me handle it," said Loretta.

Santa Muerte lost her smugness.

"Unless you're prepared to."

Everard's wild rage narrowed to a calm realization. "I can't." Killing someone in a moment of self-defense was one thing. Killing someone defenseless was another. But if he let her walk away, he was putting Abby and Liz in danger.

Bermuda was back on his feet. "This thing's about to go off."

"We'll strap her to it," said Loretta.

"You don't understand what it'll do to her," said Everard.

"But I need to," said Loretta. The cold look in her eyes helped Everard understand why everyone in the Periphery was afraid of her.

"It seems cruel," said Bermuda.

Brian just frowned.

Loretta dragged Santa Muerte to the barrel. She pulled zip-ties from wherever she kept pulling stuff from.

Santa Muerte struggled fruitlessly. "Killing me won't protect you. The Burgesses are done. You can't make us hide in the shadows anymore."

"You can stop worrying about that." Loretta used three zip-ties to strap Santa Muerte's arms around the barrel.

"Shouldn't we question her?" said Bermuda. "She might know about the booms."

"She's a security guard," said Loretta. "Even if she did know something, Inc or Undone Duncan—or both—will be here in five minutes. The Narco Saints are fanatics. We might eventually break her, but not in five minutes."

That put some pride back into Santa Muerte. "Los santos me esperan."

"They won't have to wait long," said Loretta.

The atmosphere pulsed with power. The hairs on Everard's arms rose, pulled toward the wired barrel.

"How far back do we need to get?" Loretta asked.

"I don't know," said Everard. "Just don't fight the urge to get away."

They backed away, except Brian, who peered down at Santa Muerte. He muttered something to her that sounded like a spiteful gloat. Everard didn't like hearing such a hateful tone from such a nice kid. He grabbed Brian's shirt to guide him twenty feet back with Loretta and Bermuda.

"She should be tried for her crimes," said Bermuda. "You don't have the right to be executioner."

"I was hired to keep Everard's friends safe. The Burgesses don't have the right to stop me from doing that."

Everard imagined the pain he'd felt in the Junk Shoals. Santa Muerte hung her head. He couldn't let anyone suffer like that. He started back for her.

"You're fired, Loretta."

The energy buzzing in the air stilled.

Santa Muerte looked up, hatred for Everard in her sneer. "Watch me. See what will happen to your Abby."

Everard ran towards her, reaching for his knife to cut the zip-ties.

The boom went off.

Everard clutched at his ears as they rung. The noise was tremendously loud, far beyond the boom in the Perforated Woman's workshop.

Santa Muerte screamed inaudibly.

The boom faded, leaving a tinny whine behind. Everard flipped open his knife.

The urge to get away overcame him. His intent to fight it and rescue someone from that terrible pain shrunk beneath his own fear of it. He let the urge take over.

He dashed away from the barrel.

Brian and Bermuda were backing away. Loretta gritted her teeth and watched Santa Muerte.

The urge faded as Everard reached Brian. He forced himself to turn and watch what he'd unwittingly hired Loretta to do.

Santa Muerte screamed, yanked with both arms against her restraints. The barrel held. She tried to pull her arms over the barrel, but the tangle of wires held her. She twitched, doubled over. The skull mask fell back over her face in her frantic yanking and muffled her cries.

Everard palmed his stomach.

Erratic twitches progressed to convulsions. Her head lolled to the side, her body hung back limp from the barrel.

Loretta gestured to Bermuda to join her in approaching the dead woman. Everard followed.

Santa Muerte's eyes were open behind the mask. Red sludge dripped out from beneath it.

Loretta removed the mask.

Blood thick with pulped viscera dribbled from the dead woman's mouth and nose.

"What do you think?" Loretta asked Bermuda.

The Burgess wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "I think Everard was right about the effect of the booms."

Not his noblest "I told you so" moment. Everard tried not to think of Abby's face like that. "I thought you said they were targeting certain people. That affected all of us."

"Not them." Loretta pointed to V Street. Pedestrians walked by, unaware of the corpses and bloody Denizens in the parking lot. "Only Denizens?"

Bermuda shook his head. "Inserting an idea into someone's head takes an insane amount of power. We're talking a few hundred batteries' eight-hour-shifts."

"How much is that?" asked Everard.

"A nuclear power plant running for four hours. And that's just for a handful of people."

"What's your point?" Loretta checked her watch. "We need to be gone before Bowman brings reinforcements, and I'm suddenly at war with Inc."

"My point is that the cable feeding power to that setup is a quarter-inch zinc alloy wire. That small of a gauge could only transfer enough power to force a desire like that into maybe fifteen people. Twenty, if the people are especially weak willed."

"It's that exact of a science?" asked Everard.

"Not what you reality benters do, or even what he does," Bermuda pointed to Brian, who'd turned on music on his phone. "But creating bent-touched objects is delicate work."

"You're saying this setup couldn't be targeting more than a couple dozen people," said Loretta, pulling them back on topic. "Shadow's cats have seen at least three more setups like this."

Everard noticed his phone at Santa Muerte's side. He picked it up. Scratched, but still functional.

"At close distances, it's obviously indiscriminate in who it targets," said Bermuda. "But to know if it's targeting specific individuals or groups, I'd need more time to study it."

"We're out of time."

"I'll come back."

"It'd be guarded."

"We still want proof that Inc is involved."

Everard opened up recent videos and pushed play. He scrolled quickly through the video. He had everything up until Santa Muerte picked it up. "Is Bowman giving orders to the Narco Saints proof enough?"

Loretta and Bermuda exchanged a glance.

"That'll do it," said Loretta. She checked her watch again. "Time to go. Now."

She lead them up V Street around the corner back to the SUV. A car honked at the rush hour traffic. The heat of the passing cars added to the summer evening humidity.

"Everard, send that video to Bermuda to report to Mr. President. And back it up in at least ten different places."

Bermuda's hands shook with excitement as he put his number into Everard's phone. "Once people see this, Inc's political days are over."

Brian got into the driver's seat, still quiet.

"I'll meet you back at the Hall of Burgesses," said Bermuda. "My truck is down the street."

Everard took his phone back and sent Bermuda the video.

"Don't wait for us," said Loretta. "We've got a stop to make first."

Bermuda held up his phone. "Happy to show this off, myself." He started to leave.

"Wait. I'm not done with that." Everard pointed to the flintlock Bermuda had holstered. His bent was still too sporadic to not carry an actual weapon.

"This fired the shot heard 'round the world. It's priceless."

"It's good at breaking things," said Everard.

"Give him the pistol," said Loretta. "Unless you brought something else. I don't want him watching my back unarmed. Besides, he just sent you something you can hold over Mr. President's head for years."

Bermuda begrudgingly handed Everard the flintlock, then jogged off.

Everard and Loretta got into the SUV, and Brian joined traffic.

"Where are we going?" asked Everard.

"Proving Inc is involved won't stop the machines from killing people. If we want to shut it down, we need more intel on the booms. I want to know where that power cable goes."

"How do we find that out?" Everard was more interested in striking another blow at Inc, this one hopefully large enough to scare them off so he could go home. But saving the lives of dozens of people sounded important, too. If no one else was going to do it.

"Inc's Chief Technical Officer should know."

"I'm not breaking back into 12 Corcoran," said Everard.

"We don't have to. I heard there's a fancy soiree tonight where all of the D.C. faction high society will be toasting with the Periphery's favorite recluse."

"You mean Shadow's crazy brother who wants to kill me?"

"Exactly. Did his invitation include a plus one?"

Everard ran his finger along the barrel of the flintlock. All the D.C. faction leaders would be there. Everyone who respected Inc the most. Sounded like a great place to share some home videos. "I think he'll let us all in if I ask politely."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

INTERLUDE

The mourning ruler of the blue hills, lurches from a mountaintop to a paved valley, from a child's nursery to the folds of a thundercloud, seeking the threatening booms.

It is the path of a being banished to a lesser reality, trailing remnants of its home.

The pulsing threats from the northeast continue, the hubristic bully moving to claim what they both had agreed off-limits.

The bully's encroachment will not be tolerated. The offender will understand what it is to grieve.

Ahead, the runt outcast of its species senses a trap. Bait set for another, a creature even weaker than the hubristic bully of the northeast.

But days have passed since the mourning ruler has shared its grief, and it gnaws from within.

Ascending, it springs the trap.

Powerlines snap, whip around to contain it. Their energy screams off-kilter, closes the limitless avenues traveled by the runt outcast.

A burst of panic.

For miles in every direction, children shriek, jolted awake from sudden night terrors.

Panic subsides. The powerlines are easily cast off, realities opened.

The owners of the trap arrive in force. A veritable militia armed with gunpowder and religious trinkets.

The oft-glimpsed sad god welcomes them, delivers its mournful sermon.

Satisfied, it leaves broken minds and bodies to draw ever nearer to the booming threats of the hubristic encroacher.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Everard used his hands as blinders, blocking out everything but the blue and red air conditioner knob. He tried to deny that it was turned to cold.

His mind couldn't pierce the weight around it.

The sun was still up, but out of sight behind buildings and trees. The colors of the city were muted at dusk.

He needed to figure this out before they got to the Ailuromancer's party. Thoughts of Santa Muerte and Abby kept interrupting his pondering.

Brian inched the SUV through traffic. His music played through the stereo, some amalgam of techno, hip-hop, and that sound a trash truck makes when it crushes the garbage.

Loretta sat in the front seat, talking to Jose on her phone. Then he either passed her to one of their kids, or Loretta sternly explained to her husband why he needed to eat his carrots.

That was the woman who had just murdered someone.

Murdered someone on Everard's behalf.

She finished her call. Her lips pursed and her jaw tightened.

Back to work. No more smiling.

"Will you explain to me," asked Everard, focusing again on the AC, "why I'm not allowed to kill a parasite, but you tortured a woman to death?"

"No," said Loretta.

Brian whistled through a broken front tooth. He gingerly touched the bruise on his cheek. "They say it's politics, but it's really just mutually assured destruction. You reality benters agree not to kill each other. You don't care about the rest of us."

Everard gave up practicing his bent. That was the most negative thing Brian had said since they'd met.

Loretta squeezed the armrest. "I didn't kill Santa Muerte because she's not a reality benter. She's a murderer. She made the Periphery more dangerous. She deserved it. I'd kill Bowman right this second if it wouldn't get my family killed, and start a war."

"A minute ago you only mentioned a war," said Everard.

"Why would I expect you to care about my family when you don't care about your own?"

"Who? Ryker? A woman I've never met? I got Bill Bill to work on getting her free, didn't I?" Everard dropped his tone. "I would have stopped if you'd told me Inc would come after your family. I'm impressed you're keeping it together like you are."

Impressed enough that he wanted to ask for advice. But he'd dumped Abby. There was nothing to ask about now.

"Thanks," said Loretta, after a moment.

Everard checked his phone, but Abby hadn't texted. Of course she hadn't—it was over. He was just used to hearing from her throughout the day. Even during this hellish day, a five-minute lull had him thinking about her.

Which he had to stop. Santa Muerte was further proof of it. If Periphery thugs would threaten people he cared about, then didn't that mean they had authority over him? He'd never deny Bill Bill's limp, and he'd be stuck in the Periphery forever.

Frustration flared up that he was stuck here at all. He should be relaxing at home, his feet kicked up with the 'Nats game on the TV. His recliner would be a lot more comfortable than this SUV back seat.

Until the Perforated Woman came knocking.

Everard focused on the AC knob again. He denied it. This time, his will stabbed through the heavy fog. The AC cut off. The fallout grew a mushroom on the knob.

"There. I did it. Why couldn't I before?"

"You took out their guns, didn't you" said Brian.

"But I couldn't do anything else. I'm trying it the same way, but it only randomly works."

"You must still have some kind of authority over you," said Brian.

"Let him figure it out on his own," said Loretta. She turned up the radio.

Everard reached forward between the seats to turn the radio back down. "I've got a gang of skinned freaks, some demon-worshipping businessmen, and now the super villains of West Side Story who all either want me dead or mutilated. I don't have time to figure it out on my own."

Loretta didn't look up from her phone. "Are you sure you actually want to cast off all authority?"

"If that's what'll help me get back to my normal life."

"That's what you're after?" asked Brian. "Everything going back to normal? You're not real concerned about the Perforated Woman's machines murdering a couple hundred people?"

That wasn't his responsibility. All he had to do was scare Inc enough to leave him alone. If that lined up with saving the day, then sure, he was happy to help out with it. But Loretta was the one actually capable of going toe-to-toe with Inc. He was kidding himself if he thought he was really the one who would save those people.

"What's it matter what I want?" he said. "I still haven't denied Bill Bill's limp. I'm here. I'm helping. You might as well tell me how to be useful."

"Okay," said Loretta. "I'll tell you what to do. But it won't make sense out of context. Wait until you need your bent again, and do what I say."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to take orders."

"It's not an order if you trust me."

It sounded like a cop-out on her part, but it's not like he had another idea. "Okay. Fine."

Between the flintlock and his limited abilities, he'd probably be okay.

Brian pulled them onto the Beltway, which by some miracle was actually moving at half the speed limit.

Trying to change the subject, Everard asked, "why are you doing this?"

"Because the Burgesses are paying me," said Loretta.

"Is that all?"

"I don't like the idea of Inc taking over. So I'm going to stop it."

"Why you?"

"Because I can."

"Aren't there others who could?"

"A couple." Loretta set her phone on her lap. "But they're not. So here I am."

"Why the tough guy act?"

"I don't think it's an act," said Brian.

"Fair enough," said Everard. "But it's not just the bad guys afraid of you. Why's everyone afraid of you?"

"Because they see what I do when someone threatens my family. Now drop it." She turned off the radio.

The car stalled. "Hey," said Brian. "I was using that."

"You don't build a reputation like yours on accident," said Everard.

"I said drop it!"

Everard sat back in his seat.

"I'm turning the radio back on," said Brian. "Or we can stop for gas."

Loretta rubbed her brow with her thumb and forefinger.

"I'll just leave it real quiet." Music filled the car again, something electronic with heavy drums.

Everard toyed with the flintlock.

"I want them to be afraid of me," said Loretta. "Everyone."

"But why?" asked Brian. "People would like you if they got to know you."

"Because when Undone Duncan threatens a neighborhood, he's not this overwhelming, invincible force. When Inc blackmails a business, they're not the worst thing that could come after someone. I am. And I don't come after the good guys. It's easier for people to keep up hope if there's someone scarier than the bad guys."

It all sounded noble, but Everard would still prefer to just be left alone. Everyone's hope for the future was their own responsibility.

"You're not an evil person," said Brian. His tone had become gentle.

"No. My evil is just different from Undone Duncan's or Inc's or the NSA's. Not as violent." She checked her phone.

"Hey, what about the NSA?" asked Everard. "Shouldn't a government agency be trying to stop this disaster? Don't they have spies who know what's going on with the Periphery?"

"Watchers," said Loretta. "Benters they've arrested and forced to work for them."

"A lot of people do it willingly," said Brian.

"I'm sure they're investigating on their own," said Loretta. "They ignore crime in the Periphery until it disrupts the Central Nook. Their track record isn't great, though. They end up picking up the pieces more often than stopping the disaster."

"How do you know they're not in on it?" asked Everard.

"You mean you don't trust Uncle Sam?" Loretta feigned surprise.

"Nope. I prefer things the way I have them, with Uncle Sam not even realizing I'm his nephew."

"Wait, what?" said Brian, and then the highway exploded.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

As the car flipped, Everard had the dull presence of mind to double check his seatbelt, as if the fact he stayed attached to his upside-down seat wasn't proof enough it was buckled. The roar of the explosion rang in his ears.

The butt of the flintlock hit Everard in the temple on its downward path to the ceiling.

The SUV landed on its roof, jolting him against the tight seatbelt, then screeching forward along the pavement.

Someone slammed into them from behind, and Brian jerked the wheel. Impossibly, the car swerved into the next lane, continuing forward. Brian blasted the music—an Americana band with equal parts banjo and kick drum—and jammed out, his unkempt hair flopping around to his head-banging. He was keeping the car going with his bent. After everything he'd seen in the last day, that might have been what impressed Everard the most.

The trees lining 495 blurred past the windows upside-down, but slowed. Everard made eye contact with a teenage driver who dropped her cell phone when she saw them pass.

He reached for the flintlock, but it was just outside his grasp.

Their attacker slammed into their rear again, this time followed by someone sideswiping them. This second car's tires were old and cracked, but that was all Everard could see from his angle.

"Get us facing the other way," said Loretta.

Brian whipped the wheel around, and the car followed. He put his arm around the seat and looked back through the rear windshield to navigate.

The movement knocked the flintlock a little closer, so Everard reached for it again. The blood rushing to his head plus the extra strain of reaching made his face feel like it was going to burst.

A silenced assault rifle clapped as Loretta fired out her window. Where the hell had she found an assault rifle? The back tire of the car alongside them exploded into rubber shreds.

The rear windshield shattered as unsilenced gunfire roared from behind them. The car slowed and then stopped as Brian pulled his energy from the car to deflecting the bullets, a swarm of lights replacing the busted glass.

"Keep that up," said Loretta. She dropped from her chair to the ground, somehow flipping and landing on her feet in the tight space. "You come with me," she said to Everard, then rolled through the open passenger window, another seemingly impossible move.

Everard didn't like the sound of that idea, but Loretta had proven she knew what she was doing.

He undid his seatbelt buckle and hit the ground. That'd be another bruise. He grabbed the flintlock and flung open the door. "Will you be okay?" he shouted to Brian.

Brian waved him on, weaving the movement into his dancing as he worked his way out of his own seatbelt.

Everard ducked outside and ran to the front of the car for cover. He took in the situation. The car had stopped on the right shoulder of the interstate, between a thick forest and a stream of cars slowing to rubberneck, then accelerating at the gunfire. Behind them, their pursuers had come to a stop. Everard peeked over the car for a better look. It was a boxy Ford SUV. Someone fired an automatic pistol from the front seat while two other people got out the other side. A hundred yards back, another three figures ran towards them from the wrecked car.

Everard dropped back down. He didn't see Loretta anywhere, but he could still fight back.

Brian crawled out of the car and ran to join Everard's cover. "Who is that?" he yelled.

"You expect me to know?"

"Were they following us? Is it Inc?"

"Again, I don't know!"

A round hit the radio and the music died. "Well shit," said Brian.

"What happens when the cops get here?" asked Everard. "There's no way people could just not notice an explosion and gunfight on the freeway."

"If they manage to arrest anyone before the NSA shows up," said Brian, wincing as a bullet whizzed by, "then the local cops stick us in a cell until they get there. Can't you do something about these guns?"

"Sorry, I was a little distracted by you steering a flipped car."

"I didn't tell you? I'm the Stig. Stop the guns."

Everard pushed aside all thoughts except for the idea that the guns of their attackers were loaded. No. The mental mist clung to him, but he forced his denial through.

The automatic bursts stopped. The sound of passing cars grew louder as his ears recovered.

Another bark of gunfire. Everard's denial had only partly worked.

"Hey," said Brian. "It's something. You didn't grab my Bluetooth speaker, did you?"

"It slipped my mind," said Everard. "Sorry."

"You know what your problem is? You only think about yourself."

"Shut up." Everard was glad to have Brian back to his ironic self. "Where's Loretta?"

Less frequent gunshots pinged off the car's engine.

"Hopefully, about to save us."

Everard peeked over the bumper, the heat from the still-running engine emanating onto his face. The radiator whirred, although the lime green antifreeze splattered everywhere said its days of cooling engines were over. He aimed the flintlock at the open window of their attackers' SUV and fired. Someone yelled inside.

Another man fired back from over the hood of the SUV. Everard finally got a look at him. His skin glistened with dull rainbows, and hung slightly loose from his body. Reskinned. This one looked like he'd used snakeskin to replace his own. He raised a pistol, and Everard ducked back down as the shot whizzed by.

"It's Undone Duncan's men," said Everard. "I guess he still wants to turn me into one of them."

"They're firing plain old lead," said Brian. "I'm not sure they got the memo about keeping you alive."

"Everard." Loretta sounded like she was right next to him, but when he turned around she was across four lanes of traffic, in the median. "They're trying to flank you."

He stuck his head to the side of the car in time to see a reskinned leap over a cement barrier to dash into the woods. Everard shot at him, but missed and knocked over a sapling instead. The reskinned dove into the undergrowth.

"You've got about sixty seconds until that car isn't giving you any cover," said Loretta. "We'll use their own strategy against them. Assault them from the front, and I'll swing around the side."

"Why don't you just go invisible again?" said Everard. Charging straight at two armed men felt a little suicidal.

"If you work with me, you do what I say."

"Or," said Brian, "we could head to the woods ourselves. The extra cover would be nice."

"You stay where you are, Brian," said Loretta, "unless you've got a weapon you haven't mentioned."

"Are you trying to get him killed?" Brian sounded exasperated.

"Thirty seconds," said Loretta, "and you'll have gunfire coming at you from two directions."

She'd said to listen to her when the moment arose. Maybe she had some kind of plan. "Let's do it," said Everard. She wouldn't let him die. Bill Bill was paying her too much.

"When I open fire from their flank, you move in."

Everard flexed his legs, ready to go.

"I can use the music from my phone speaker to create a small shield," said Brian, "maybe the size of your chest. But my Bluetooth speaker's in the car. If you can get it for me, I'll be a lot more help."

Another bullet found the radiator, which died with a final hiss.

A lull in traffic, and Loretta's rifle roared from across the street. She'd thrown aside the silencer. Everard ducked out from the cover, moving as fast as he could without ruining his aim. The two reskinned fired over the hood of the SUV. The flintlock punched through the steel over the Ford's wheel-well, knocking the reskinned back.

Everard glanced into their own flipped SUV. The Bluetooth speaker lay on the ceiling by a headrest. He could grab it and toss it to Brian, so his frontal assault would have two prongs, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to trust Loretta.

The two reskinned behind the SUV opened fire again, one at Everard, and the other at Loretta, who was making her way across the highway, gracefully stepping through three lanes of traffic who didn't realize a gunfight was going on until they were already through it.

Running in a zigzag pattern, Everard felt the rush of bullets shoot past him. What was Loretta doing? The only thing keeping him alive was this guy's terrible aim. Everard returned fire. His own aim was thrown off by moving—he'd always practiced standing still at a gun range—so he shot the Ford, knocking it inches at a time at his attackers. They couldn't back too far away, for fear of losing their cover, but they couldn't get a steady shot with two tons of steel bumping into them.

A string of gunshots exploded from the trees. A small mass of lights appeared by Everard's side to deflect the attack.

Everard used the distraction to sprint to the SUV, coming around the back to put it between him and the flanker. He shot the first reskinned—whose skinned flesh was wrapped in copper wire—in the gut with a shaky hand. The thug collapsed, holding his gut and gasping for air. The second—covered in a stitched layer of feathers—turned too slowly, and Everard shot him in the side. He hit the ground like a rag doll. Blood spilled from his mouth, staining the feathers beneath dead eyes. The blast must have forced a rib into his heart.

Training his gun on the writhing reskinned, Everard looked around for Loretta. The steady traffic continued by. The three reskinned from the crashed car were less than fifty yards away now. One stopped to kneel and fire a rifle. The high caliber round struck the SUV and continued through. Everard dropped and rolled under the Ford, pavement rough against his cheeks, then scrambled out the other side.

He tried to think of the rifle's loaded chamber. More gunfire erupted from the trees. A round grazed Everard's thigh. Completely flanked now, Everard fired blindly into the undergrowth. If Loretta was going to do something, it better be quick.

"Use their radio!" shouted Brian.

He should have thought of that himself. Everard flung the front door open and jumped inside. Another rifle round disintegrated the headrest into a puff of upholstery. The SUV still idled, although the temperature gauge was the in the red. Keeping his head below the windows, Everard mashed the power button on the radio and turned the volume knob as far to the right as it would go.

An impassioned voice pleaded with the listener to stop trusting the Democrats. Everard cursed and found the tuner knob. Crackling static and momentary bits of talk radio or commercials deafened Everard as he searched for music. A calm voice narrated a pitcher's communication with his catcher. Daniel Murphy hit a double for the Nationals as a back window shattered.

He was on AM stations. He jammed the button to switch to FM, where it was already tuned to DC101. A band who was almost certainly wearing all black screamed along to heavy guitars and drums.

A dome of pastel sparks appeared around the SUV, bathing the interior in soothing tones, a sharp contrast to the angry song. The echoing crack of the rifle still made it through the lights, but they blocked any view of the outside, and Everard wasn't going to try walking through them.

After about thirty seconds of death metal, the dome faded. Everard rolled out of the car, ready to put a beam of sound into another reskinned's chest. The reskinned from the woods was sprawled on his face in the grass. His skin was made of leaves of all shapes, sizes, and colors, which explained why Everard hadn't been able to spot him.

Brian stood over the other three, who sat unarmed with their hands on their heads. Brian's body still glowed.

Everard turned down the music enough to talk. "Thanks."

"Thanks for turning on the radio. I hate feeling powerless, you know?"

"Yes."

The traffic continued by. A siren wailed in the distance.

"Think these guys can tell us about the booms? Maybe where to find the machines?" Everard got a closer look at the reskinned. Two were the man and woman who had brought him to Undone Duncan last night. The third was the neckbeard who'd thrown himself into the machine.

"Hey there, Joshua," said Everard.

"We're not telling you shit." A needle and thread stuck through Joshua's felt skin. He'd finished stitching it himself.

"Quiet," mumbled the woman.

"You're the one who shook George. I kinda like George." Everard pressed the flintlock against her forehead. "Why are you telling Joshua to be quiet? Do you guys know something useful?"

"They might know what's powering the machines," suggested Brian.

"They don't have time to question us," said the third reskinned. Compared to Joshua's loose fabric, their carpet skin almost passed for normal.

"He's right," said Brian. The sirens were slowly growing louder. "We gotta get out of here before the cops show up."

"Sure," said the woman. "Cops."

Loretta sprinted into view from across the street. "Get in their truck," she yelled.

With Everard distracted, the reskinned woman yanked a gun out of her boot. Everard fired the flintlock. She slammed backwards against the pavement. He'd punched a bloody, cracked dent into her skull. Her companion leapt at Everard, howling.

Loretta put a bullet through the reskinned's neck. "Brian, get the truck moving!"

Behind her came a swarm of ants or beetles, dark splotches on the road that moved like a school of fish, even crawling up onto passing cars. They came like a mudslide. Following the swarm, calm and composed, was a woman with wild dark hair and a self-assured smile.

Those weren't insects, they were perforations. They demanded Everard's attention, refused to let him look away.

Loretta punched him in the chest. "Get moving."

Lightheaded, he ran for the SUV.

Loretta fired at the Perforated Woman. The swarm of holes slid across her flesh to catch the lead. She didn't even flinch.

Brian leapt into the driver's seat. He flung a whip of light at their attacker. Tiny bits of the light disappeared, the holes multiplying until they swallowed the whip.

Everard reached the back of the SUV, glanced over his shoulder. The Perforated Woman met his gaze.

His sore jaw twitched as pores in his cheek stirred. The perforations slid across the pavement, but they'd already arrived. He clawed at his cheek, fingernails digging into skin.

No. The mental mist was light, but his focus was erratic.

Loretta flung open the door, threw Everard inside, jumped in behind him.

"The engine's overheating!" Brian whipped the wheel around, swerving onto the highway.

Loretta cupped her hands on Everard's cheek, enclosing the perforations. "Breathe, Everard. You need to deny this. Make it go away."

Everard knocked away her hands, scratched deeper at his cheek. "I can't! I have to get them out." The holes inched upward, toward his eye.

The engine roared and then died. "Fuck!" screamed Brian. "I hope you're done with your conversation back there."

Death metal shook the SUV.

Loretta yelled something, but Everard couldn't focus on reading her lips.

"No," he moaned. His will pushed weakly against the mist.

A spot appeared in his vision. The hole in his eye filled the world, blocking out every other thought until only the absence remained.

No. He denied the only thing that existed. The mist gave, and his will limped through.

The interior of the SUV returned. Brian swerved through traffic, propelling them with the music. Loretta felt Everard's cheek, pushed her fingers through his hair to feel his scalp.

"They're gone," exhaled Everard.

"You need to figure out your bent." She collapsed into the seat beside him. "I don't know how much longer I can protect you."

Chapter Thirty

It took Everard the better part of an hour to stop swatting at any itch on his skin.

They'd swapped the SUV for a car someone had left at a mechanic's over the weekend. They had more than an hour before the Ailuromancer's soiree even started, so Loretta had told Brian to just drive for a while.

Panic and fear slipped away to be replaced with anger at Loretta for her dangerous order.

"What was that about?" Everard asked, leaning forward to look at himself in the rearview mirror. Fallout from his denial had turned his eye from blue to hazel.

After she didn't answer, Brian said, "I think she's asleep."

"She almost got me killed back there. And after that bullshit she was spitting about how I should listen to authority I trust! I trusted her, and she left me to charge straight ahead at reskinned with automatic weapons."

"She's trying to help you. If you don't figure out your bent, someone's going to kill you."

"Like the Ailuromancer we're headed to right now?" Everard grunted and leaned back in his chair.

"I almost feel sorry for her, you know?" said Brian. "She's so convinced she has to be all big and bad, it's like she can never be happy."

"She's doing it to herself."

"I don't know. If she was just being stubborn then I wouldn't feel as sorry for her. But she's not. I know what I said a minute ago about the reality benters not caring about everyone else, but that wasn't fair to Loretta. She's the only reality benter in the city with a family. If for one second someone thinks they can get away with hurting her kids, they'll do it. She has to send a message every single day."

"No one's making her do what she does."

Brian shook his head. "The shit you've seen today, you don't think she's needed? I've actually avoided most of these conflicts until yesterday. I'd never had a run-in with one of Undone Duncan's gangs, I'd only seen a reskinned a few times, and I'd only heard of the Perforated Woman. Until you told me about it, I thought the Bloat was a myth. That shit's terrifying, but it's a little less terrifying knowing it's all scared of her. Or at the very least, she's keeping it focused on her. I used to judge her for what she did to her husband, but not anymore. She can't let up for a second."

"What do you mean? What did she do to Jose?"

"Oh yeah, I guess you wouldn't know about that."

"That's been the theme of the last twenty-four hours."

Brian scratched at his bruise. "Bowman's only been CFO for Inc for a couple years. Before was a guy named Smoot. The CFO's head of security for Inc, right? And Smoot didn't like that the CEO was afraid of Loretta. Every one of those minds inside that suit, they're all afraid of her. Smoot wanted to get promoted, so he could jump out of his suit and into the CEO's. He figures the best way to get promoted is to take care of Loretta. He starts letting the rumor circulate that he's got a plan that will really break her, which of course everyone assumes means he's going after her family. But Smoot's not stupid—he's got security on him twenty-four seven. Doesn't go ten minutes without burning a few hundred dollars."

"Why didn't she just kill him?" Everard imagined the body in the shredded suit hanging from the lamppost outside Inc's office.

"That's what I said. But I guess she wanted to send a message. Make sure everyone knew it was her. That's where Bowman comes in. He was second in command to Smoot. And he was new. These guys who join Inc, they've got decades of experience getting rich with their corporate schemes, but only a few come from the Periphery, so they can be pretty naive at first. Loretta decides that to get a fair shot at Smoot—a shot that will let the world know even the CFO can't threaten her family—she has to get close to Bowman. So she does."

"What do you mean?"

Brian lowered his voice and checked to make sure Loretta was still asleep. "She gets close to him. He has to trust her. She makes him think she's into him. That she wants him."

"And he believed her?"

"Bowman wasn't the guy you know. Not yet. One of the biggest threats to Inc starts coming onto him, he thinks it's his opportunity to jump in line for the CEO, and that's all he can think about. I don't know if he thought he'd negotiated a new ally, or he planned on turning on her and impressing the Bloat. But he let her close."

"He fell in love with me," said Loretta, eyes still closed.

Everard and Brian jumped.

"You've been awake the whole time?" asked Everard.

"Sorry," said Brian. "I didn't mean to share your secrets like that."

"And yet that's exactly what you're doing."

"I want to know more about who I'm working with," said Everard. "Besides, I thought most people already knew this. It's not like it's a secret."

"Harmless curiosity, that's all?" Loretta fumed. "You want to know my secrets?"

"Just trying to understand why you threw me to the wolves back there."

"You don't understand what you're talking about."

"I think I'm starting to get a pretty good idea."

"Oh, you have me figured out, do you? You know what it's like for monsters and demons to threaten your newborn? Or what it takes to keep them afraid of you? And I can't just turn it off when I go home." Loretta's voice dropped. "When there's thunder and they're scared, sure, they run to Mommy. But when they make a macaroni collage, or they want to share a knock-knock joke their teacher told them, it's not me they want. It's Daddy who gives them that warm, fuzzy feeling. I can make them feel safe, but I'll never make them feel special. Not while I spend my days being terrifying."

"Geez, Loretta, I didn't know," said Brian. "I'm sorry. At least you know you're doing the right thing."

Everard rolled his eyes.

"The right thing?" spat Loretta. "You still think I'm some sort of knight errant. Do you know how I got close to Bowman? A man whose biggest goal in life is to join the CEO and live a life of power and hedonism? It wasn't by fluttering my eyelashes. Try explaining to my husband that to save his life I had to cheat on him."

Brian's displayed his discomfort by slowing down and actually driving like a sane human being. "You don't gotta tell us all that."

"I thought you wanted to know all about me. Maybe I should tell you about how my husband wouldn't look me in the eye for months afterwards. Or would you like me to describe his expression when he asked if I'd developed feelings for Bowman and I hesitated half a second before answering?"

"Hey, lay off him," said Everard. "Go back to being brooding and mysterious. It's better than this woe-is-me bullshit."

Loretta turned around in her seat, but decided it was less awkward to just yell facing forward. "Where do you get off telling me how much I should regret something? What do you know about my life?"

"I saw you with your husband." Everard steadily raised his voice. "The man obviously loves you. He's obviously forgiven you. And your kids—they're your kids! They run to you when they're scared, but they show daddy their finger paintings first? Oh big fucking deal. Your life at home is only almost perfect. That must be so rough."

"Guys, I think," said Brian, but Everard kept yelling.

"You're making your relationships way more complicated than they need to be," shouted Everard. "Why don't you just enjoy it and let it happen?"

Brian pulled into a shopping center and parked the car. "We're stopping here. I need some Sensodyne, a new speaker, and I'm starving." He got out and headed into an drug store.

A few minutes later, they sat around a table in Wendy's, quietly eating hamburgers and chili.

Everard got tired of all the glowering. "So is this visit to the Ailuromancer another 'let's toss Everard into danger and see if his superpowers manifest' bullshit plan? Or was that just the plan against the reskinned?"

"The plan is to interrogate the CTO. The only reason you're coming is because the invite is in your name. Don't try to use your bent. There will be four reality benters from D.C. Factions there."

"You're really not going to explain what happened back there? Why you told me to trust you, and then almost got me killed?"

"Nope. If you'd like to leave, I'm not keeping you. Bowman will be livid when he sees you helped discredit Inc, but I'll be happy enough doing it without you."

Everard took a bite of his burger. He couldn't go home until he convinced Inc to leave him alone. Hanging out with Loretta was still the best way to do that.

"I think what she means is-" started Brian, but Loretta cut him off with a glare.

"I'm not an idiot. I know exactly what she's trying to do. It's not just about Bowman. Bill Bill pays her more if I figure out my bent. She thinks throwing me to the wolves will force me to figure it out." And she had a point. He'd made his first step up—at least denying little things—when he'd thought the Lynch Mobbers were going to kill him. But he'd since faced more dire situations, and his bent had been sporadic. Further life or death situations hadn't helped.

He needed to figure out how to cast off authority. Ending things with Abby apparently hadn't been enough.

"My babysitting rate doesn't change if you figure out your bent," said Loretta.

Everard looked for any indication that she was lying. "Then why do you care? I don't want to be your sidekick."

Loretta snorted. "Trust me, I don't want a sidekick. And if I did, Brian would make a much better candidate."

"Don't you do a lot of sneaking around?" asked Brian. "Going invisible and everything? That's not really my scene. I use loud music to make bright lights."

"I don't actually want a sidekick," said Loretta.

"I know a Hexer who does gymnastics." Brian snapped his fingers. "Even better, I met a dude into parkour. And building hacking. He's not a benter, but you could drop a few grand on some bent-touched gear, show him a few breaks."

Everard couldn't tell if Brian was kidding, but he was definitely trying to lighten the mood. Everything the kid said had layers of sincerity on top of irony on top of sincerity. Talking to him was like a game. Everard liked him.

A troubling thought hit Everard. His bent hadn't worked because he'd been relying too much on both Brian and Loretta. If any authority made him weak, then he had to stop listening to Loretta's orders, and he had to pull back on his friendship with Brian. Brian himself had said it—any kind of relationship where he'd do what they asked, just because they asked it.

He'd stick with Loretta to strike back at Inc, but he was done following her orders.

Everard balled up his trash. "Everyone full? Let's go meet one more person who wants to kill me."

Chapter Thirty-One

Brian pulled off the beltway and headed to the Forest Hills neighborhood.

Everard nodded off in the back. The sun had gone down, and almost getting murdered was exhausting.

Loretta turned on the dome light, and made them all turn on the flashlights on their phones. "The Howser's Hunters should have the Boogeyman contained to a single building by now, but better not to risk it."

The weekend nightlife traffic was nothing compared to rush hour, but it was still D.C. Getting anywhere took half an hour.

Loretta called her family and told her kids a bedtime story about a dog who couldn't find his leash. She worked more cheer and enthusiasm into that story than in everything she else she'd said the past twenty-four hours.

The Forest Hills neighborhood held true to its name. Trees hid most of the houses from view. The smaller houses were still bigger than anything Everard would ever need, only they sat on smaller lots.

"How'd you like to live around here?" asked Brian, after Loretta ended her call.

They turned down another street, where the houses were big enough to be called manors. At least, based on what you could see of them through the trees. Lots this size must be valued in the millions.

"I wouldn't complain," said Everard.

"Easier to defend," said Loretta.

"You should see some of their security systems," said Everard. "I did some work on a house a few blocks away wired up so fancy, if a cat walked by outside they could get an alert."

Loretta laughed. "Cats walking by is half my security system."

Everard almost asked her to explain the exact connection between the Ailuromancer and cats, but he needed to stop seeing Loretta and Brian as authority. That probably included asking them to teach him about the Periphery.

He went over what he already knew.

The Ailuromancer was one of the "major players" Brian had described—reality benters. He thought Everard had been impersonating him, so killing Everard was high on his todo list. He had some connection with indoor cats—Everard was pretty sure he'd been inside George's head when the Boogeyman had attacked—and his brother Shadow had some connection with outdoor cats. Shadow had mentioned cousins, as well.

They pulled up to a wrought iron gate blocking off a brick driveway that led up a hill into the woods. Loretta handed Brian a white card the size of credit card, which he waved over a sensor. The gate opened, and they drove inside.

Everard didn't ask whether she had a keycard for this neighborhood, or if she'd programmed a universal remote for electronic locks.

At the top of the hill waited the Ailuromancer's sprawling modern mansion. The drive looped around the front door, and then to a guest house, where eight luxury cars were parked. The drivers milled about, passing the time while their stupidly wealthy employers partied inside.

"Park with them," said Loretta. "Swing around to face the exit, in case we have to leave quickly."

Brian parked and they all got out.

The drivers didn't give them a second glance. They were standing around an electric lantern. Loretta wasn't the only one worried about staying out of the dark.

Loretta led the way to the front door. Everard expected a doorman to be waiting on the porch, so all the important guests must have already arrived.

"The goal here," said Loretta, "is to make contact with the CTO. Then I'll get him alone and get some answers about what's powering the machines."

Everard grunted agreement. That was her goal. He patted his phone through his pocket. His goal was to broadcast to Inc's buddies that Inc was secretly funding Undone Duncan's gangs.

"Don't do anything stupid," said Loretta.

"Of course not." He knocked on the front door.

"Whoa," said Brian.

A homeless woman stood frozen in the bushes, having just come around from the side of the house. She wore jeans coated in dirt, and a baggy gray t-shirt. Her hair was so matted she had dreads. Her eyes looked like Shadow's, definitely human, but if you looked closely enough the pupils had feline points. She stood on the balls of her feet, leaning back toward where she'd come, ready to flee.

"Hey there," said Everard.

She sniffed the air between them.

A boom echoed through the city, louder than before.

The woman leapt out of sight.

Brain rubbed at his ears. "That's definitely happening more often."

Everard kept an eye out to make sure the woman wasn't sneaking back towards them. "I wonder how many people turned tail and ran this time."

"Hopefully everyone affected," said Loretta. "We're running out of time."

Everard banged his fist on the door. "Are there a lot of feral people from the Periphery?"

"That's Bethlehem," said Brian. "The Ailuromancer's sister. They say she only talks to Tom, but one time she let me give her a sandwich."

Loretta rang the doorbell.

"Tom changed his name to Shadow," said Everard.

"Look at this guy," laughed Brian, "becoming a regular expert. You'll be telling me how to use my bent next."

The door opened, revealing a man nearly as tall as Undone Duncan. Except where the Cursed Strongman Undone was barrel chested and nearly as wide as he was tall, this man had a sleekness to his mass. Everard got the idea he could not only knock out Rocky Balboa in three hits, he could do it while pirouetting. This was the guy the Jets and Sharks wanted as their personal trainer.

"Roland," said Loretta.

Roland looked at Loretta head-to-toe, like he'd never seen her before. He avoided meeting her eye. He stared down Brian, who decided his Converse needed inspecting, and then tried to stare down Everard.

Reddish brown hair formed a small halo over Roland's light-skinned face. Usually, other mixed people saw Everard and were immediately friendly, since it was obvious no two branches of his family tree had the same skin color. But Roland's posture and impersonal glare was all challenge.

Everard held his gaze.

The man had to be six-and-a-half feet tall, and Everard didn't have any illusions about being able to take him if he attacked, but Everard could bluff with the best of them. Although it wasn't really bluffing, since he was frustrated and angry and would gladly scuffle with Roland, even though it might put him in the hospital. And maybe refusing to let Roland's size intimidate him would strengthen his bent.

"Loretta," said Roland, his voice every bit as deep and booming as expected. "I don't believe you have an invite."

"I do," said Everard. "And these are my guests."

Roland tried to stare down Everard a second time. Recognition played on his face. "You're the new rebellist. My apologies. Please, come in. Dinner has already been served, but I could bring you a charcuterie board." He stepped aside to let them enter.

"That's alright." Brian walked in first. "We stopped at Wendy's on the way over."

Everard past Roland and into a savannah. Instead of the ornate foyer he expected, he felt hard dirt beneath his feet, high grass and leafy bushes brushing against his legs. Scraggly trees along the walls blurred the fact that the surround hilly landscape was painted.

"What the hell is this place?" Everard bit his tongue. He couldn't stop asking questions.

"The Ailuromancer throwing a bone to Roland," whispered Brian. "It lets his bodyguard feel more at home."

Pushing aside blades of grass, they followed Roland out of the savannah foyer, past a sitting room, and into an open courtyard.

Balconies and patios overlooked the enclosed space, like a miniature version of a Spanish villa. Everard admired the design. A lot of potential space sacrificed for some private sunlight, but it was about time architects stopped groveling at the feet of the god of square footage. Square footage was just a socially acceptable way to brag about how much you spent on your home.

On the other hand, no one would be bragging about this courtyard. There were two industrial sized dumpsters - way more than a household this size could need. A sticky-looking puddle leaked out from under one of the dumpsters, and an old mattress leaned against the other. A flickering streetlight gave the finishing touch to turn the courtyard into an alley.

"This is some kind of madman's funhouse," muttered Everard.

"My cousin is concerned with our comfort," said Roland. "He's generous, and you shouldn't insult him."

"Sorry," said Everard, sincerely. He looked for something nice to say. "I like the layout. You guys definitely went your own way with it."

"I broke the arm of the last man who mocked me."

Why did he even try?

A dumpster lid swung open with a crash. Everard grabbed the flintlock which he'd now grown accustomed to having in the back of his waistband. Brian hit a button on his phone, which played a bassless, tinny melody.

Loretta and Roland remained calm.

Shadow stood up inside the dumpster and stretched, his back arching and arms reaching for the night sky. "Loretta! You came to see me."

Everard let go of the pistol and let his shirt drop back down over it. Brian cut off the music.

"Bethlehem told me we had visitors, but she didn't say the most beautiful woman in the city was among them." He hopped onto the lip of the dumpster and then onto the ground.

Bethlehem stuck her head above the edge to look at them.

"They're here as your brother's guests," growled Roland.

"I know. I delivered the invitation," purred Shadow. He sauntered to Loretta, lifting a hand to touch her face before thinking better of it. "But I was hoping maybe Loretta's visit also had a personal element to it."

"I'm afraid I'd prefer to stick to our boring professional arrangements," said Loretta.

Bethlehem giggled, then covered her mouth and ducked down until only her eyes were showing over the edge of the dumpster.

Shadow clicked his tongue. He moved on to Brian, whose face he wasn't afraid to touch. "Maybe this stunning young man, then? Tell me, you ever with been with someone as strong as they are flexible?"

"A couple times," said Brian, way more comfortably than Everard could have.

"They weren't like me," said Shadow, running a finger along Brian's shoulders.

"Only one way I could know for sure," said Brian.

Shadow roared with laughter. "Where'd you find this one?"

"Capitol Bohemia," said Loretta. "Your friends over at Inc paid the Lynch Mobbers to kill his sister this morning, so I wouldn't turn your back on him."

With a start, Shadow jumped back out of reach. Brian gave him a devilish grin and kissed the air between them.

"The risk would be exhilarating." Shadow breathed the last word, although he didn't get any closer.

Loretta yawned. "I believe you've stalled us long enough for the Ailuromancer to warn his guests that I'm accompanying Everard. Can we move on now?"

Roland glowered but led the way through the courtyard and back inside. As they left, Everard heard Shadow answer Bethlehem, "a sandwich? I don't think so."

This hallway was more what Everard was expecting based on the neighborhood. Polished rosewood floor, complete with its soft scent of roses, and wainscoting with elaborate patterns. Crystal chandeliers and framed paintings, probably original.

Loretta leaned in close to Everard. "Remember, keep your mouth shut and your head down. The Ailuromancer is not a patient man."

"You ever hear about what happens to people who abuse cats?"

"Yeah," said Everard. "Wait, no. Dogs, sometimes. But not cats."

"That's because they don't last long in D.C."

Everard wasn't a cat person, but you had to respect someone who took a stand for something they loved. Or had some kind of supernatural connection to.

They reached mahogany double doors, which Roland pushed open to reveal a three story room with walkways around the walls. Bridges crisscrossed each other in the open air, including a covered bridge with a curved roof. Ramps connected the different walkway levels. It may have been a library at one point, but now every surface was covered in carpet. Expensive carpet, but carpet nonetheless.

"The reskinned would love this place," whispered Everard.

"That scum will never set foot in here," said Roland.

Everard was going to enjoy outing Inc's secret dealings.

Several couches and armchairs formed a small sitting area on the highest walkway, a bar on one side, and a pianist on another, playing something soft and classical. About fifteen finely dressed people chatted and sipped at their glasses.

A small man, plump and hairy, picking at a shrimp cocktail, called down to them. "Please, come join us."

"That's him," whispered Brian.

Silky hair somewhere between blond and white was perfectly combed behind his ears, and his matching beard was thick but neatly trimmed. He wore a gray sharkskin tuxedo with black lapels, although he'd probably be more comfortable in a silk robe.

Roland ushered them up the nearest ramp.

"How the hell did people confuse me for him?" asked Everard.

"Bill Bill knows what he's doing," said Loretta. "He denied that people would see anybody but the Ailuromancer. Throw in the cat, and people see what they see."

They walked around the second level, which was littered with string, feathers, bells, bottle caps, and other junk.

"But that gut!" said Everard. "I know I don't have a six-pack, but my gut's not that big."

"Just think," said Brian, "once you get your bent down, you can make people see whatever you want. You'll never have to exercise again."

"And I'll never have to deal with any of this insanity ever again," Everard muttered. As they walked up to the third level, Everard wished he had some Benadryl.

Cats lounged about the party. Everard counted five: three white Persians, an excited Bengal with its orange and black leopard pattern, and a hairless monstrosity that he was pretty sure was called a Sphinx.

"Please," the Ailuromancer, presenting with open arms the couches and table, "make yourself comfortable."

No way they were feeling comfortable with this crowd. Everyone here was in evening wear, while Everard, Loretta, and Brian's casual wardrobe had been through a lot today. Vomit stained Everard's collar, and blood stained the band logo on Brian's chest. Loretta looked put together, all things considered.

It wasn't just the clothes. It was the company.

Everard immediately spotted the CEO, Bowman, and a third suit. He exhaled slowly, reminded himself he wasn't in 12 Corcoran. "Are they going to try anything?" he whispered to Loretta.

"They won't attack you in the Ailuromancer's home, if that's what you’re asking," said Loretta. "Now if you'll excuse me."

Loretta slipped away to join a different conversation.

Everard stood awkwardly next to Brian, looking for the best way to get everyone here to watch the video of Bowman and the Narco Saints. He scanned the room.

The members of Inc stood out as underdressed, since everyone else was in tuxes. Tough to dress up when you are the dress.

The CEO flashed a charming smile and lifted his glass in greeting. Bowman and the other suit—who must have been the CTO—talked to a bald man Everard thought he recognized.

Fiametta Vine sat nibbling on a cracker. Everard wondered if she'd brought any of that lemonade. His head still hurt.

Formal wear had a way of anonymizing its wearer, so the rest of this gathering of Periphery Denizens could have been any collection of blue bloods, except for a slender woman in a dress that was all angles and ribbons and looked like it belonged on the runway. She approached Brian and drew him into a hug.

Everard was close enough to hear what she whispered.

"I'm so sorry about Renae. I've already told your parents I'll cover the costs of the funeral. Thank you for not breaking our agreement with the Burgesses."

Brian mumbled thanks. He presented her to Everard. "This is Nuo Che. She's the First Chair of Capitol Bohemia. Nuo, this is Everard."

Everard shook her hand. "So you're his boss?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"You do that dancing thing, too?"

She gave him an amused smile. "Capitol Bohemia is a collective of artists and art enthusiasts. My talents don't lie in dancing."

"She's a designer," said Brian.

Everard looked at her dress for some evidence of a bent. Maybe she did something to clothes like Bermuda did to historical trinkets.

Nuo kissed Brian's cheek. "Keep listening to him. He's a good kid," she said to Everard, then went and joined Fiametta Vine.

"She seems nice," said Everard.

Brian nodded agreement.

"Inc's sort of in charge here, right?" asked Everard.

"Not in the Ailuromancer's house, but they lead the D.C. factions usually, yeah."

"But Capitol Bohemia and Fiametta Vine were at the Burgesses meeting."

"Us and the No-Goes are friendly with the National factions."

"What about the rest of them. How loyal to Inc are they?"

"As loyal as money can buy."

Everard nodded. This could work. He needed a bigger screen, though.

He wandered to the bar. Like most of the guests, he kept his distance from the edge of the carpeted floor. It dropped two stories to the ground floor below.

The bartender, a tall, skinny man with a protruding Adam's apple, gestured to Everard to hang on while he served Bowman, the CTO, and the bald man.

Everard sidled up close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Four miles, each way." Bowman patted the bald man's back. "And that was just because we'd forgotten the cooler. That's the kind of commitment you can expect from Iberra."

The bald man responded uncomfortably. "It's not their commitment I worry about."

The CTO could have been a late night radio announcer, with his smooth, low voice. "Is it the software?"

"That's part of it. I had a guy look at it, and he says it's doing way more than analyzing workflow."

Bowman sipped his drink. "With all due respect, Senator, the team at Iberra are the only ones qualified to tell you what the software does."

Senator. Inc was lobbying Congress. Whether to secure more contracts and thus more money, or for something more directly related to furthering the Bloat, Everard didn't know.

"What'll it be?" The skinny bartender interrupted Everard's thoughts. He moved down the bar away from the lobbying suits, forcing Everard to give Inc space if he wanted to order.

"A beer."

"Fitzwilliam requested only local breweries. I've got Lost Rhino, Heritage, and Heavy Seas."

"Do any of them do anything for a headache?"

"Depends on how many you drink."

"I'll have a Heavy Seas."

The bartender set a stein and a bottle in front of him.

"You know these guys well?" asked Everard.

"It's the first time the company's sent me."

Perfect. "Then they probably didn't tell you they're celebrating record profits for a deal they all went in on together."

The bartender raised an eyebrow. "All these people went in on the same deal?"

Everard shrugged. "It was a team effort. But listen, I put together a little celebration video I'd like to show everyone. You don't know where I could get a TV or something, do you?"

"Not myself, but I could radio the butler."

"That would be amazing." Everard slid him a generous tip. He picked up the bottle and walked away, keeping an eye on Bowman.

Loretta was deep in conversation so Everard found Brian. He was sitting on a chaise lounge, by a table with an assortment of hor'devours. Mostly high quality meat and fish artfully plated, except for a loaf of banana bread, half-encased in plastic wrap.

A drunk fifty-something woman was flirting with Brian. A white Persian sat on Brian's lap, purring as he scratched behind its ears.

Everard sat down and sipped his beer. A Sphinx cat hopped up next to him. At least it was hairless. Maybe he'd be fine without Benedryl.

The Ailuromancer sat down across from Everard, holding a shrimp cocktail. "You must be the new rebellist. Everard, is it?"

"Yes." Everard scratched the oily skin behind the Sphinx's ears. He needed to not piss off the Ailuromancer long enough to out Inc. But if he already wanted to kill Everard, it might be too late for that.

"Call me Fitzwilliam, please." The Ailuromancer smoothed his sharkskin lapels, then held out his hand like he was presenting the guests. "Even if you don't realize it, you're one of us, so no need for formalities."

"Thanks." How long would it take to get a TV here?

"You're entirely new to the Periphery, as I understand it." He slipped a shrimp into his mouth, and daintily licked the red sauce off his fingertips. "It's kind of you to grace me with a social call, even if I do rank somewhere below those colonial bureaucrats and the Cursed Strongman."

"Undone Duncan sort of kidnapped me, and I had some urgent business with Mr. President." Everard scratched his face, leaving behind a slick smear. This cat was greasier than a cheeseburger. "But once I learned about you I thought to myself: now there's a man to know. You obviously carry the respect of your community."

Brian jerked his head away from the flirtatious woman in shock. Everard shrugged. His business sometimes catered to the wealthy. He knew how to talk to them.

Brian went back to flirting, and probably eavesdropping.

Fitzwilliam waggled his finger, a claw visible beneath the nail. "That I do, I still do. I had George Cloony over for cocktails the other day, and his publicist was telling me I needed to get out more. Pound the pavement, as if I'm some kind of small town mayor looking for reelection."

"Some people." Everard shook his head and put on his best for shame face.

More animated with the show of sympathy, the Ailuromancer continued. "I told him I'm not a famer; I don't need the public to adore me to know my own worth. I believe George is paying that man far too much."

Everard wiped the cat grease onto his jeans. "People don't know the value of a dollar anymore." Rich people loved it when you said that.

"I was trying to tell Roland that exact thing over breakfast. But he doesn't care, do you?" Fitzwilliam looked around. "Where is he?"

Roland entered the room two stories below, a flat screen television in his arms.

"What is he doing now?" Fitzwilliam pursed his lips. Both cats tensed up, and let out low warning growls. "Oh, I bet Miss Che wants to show off her latest work."

The cats relaxed again.

"Now what were you saying?"

Everard cleared his throat. "I was about to thank you for the invitation. Like you said, I'm new here, but I still recognize the privilege."

"Didn't Shadow inform you of the dress?"

Everard tugged at his sweaty t-shirt. "I'm so sorry about that. Loretta has been dragging Brian and me through all sorts of adventures."

"She does get into trouble, that one." Fitzwilliam smiled, flashing his teeth. "Ultimately, though, I'd say a man is responsible for his own image. Don't you agree?"

"In most circumstances, sure."

"In which circumstances would he not?"

How about one in which your neighbor make everyone think you look like a murderous recluse? "Maybe when he's unaware of his appearance until after the fact."

The Ailuromancer tapped his nail on the cocktail glass. "I disagree."

Roland and the bartender set up the TV.

"Excuse me," said Everard. "I need another beer. Bring you anything?"

Fitzwilliam shook his head. He flashed another smile, this time showing feline fangs.

Everard nodded like he wasn't being threatened, and headed for the bar. One disaster at a time.

Maybe once he showed Inc what happened when they threatened him, the Ailuromancer would back off, too.

Loretta grabbed his arm. "You said you wanted to help, right?"

"Where'd you come from?"

"The CTO and Bowman are too wrapped up in that Senator, and I still need to get the CTO alone."

"I could distract Bowman for you."

"It's like you read my mind." Loretta slipped gracefully into another conversation.

A video proving Inc was funding Undone Duncan should be adequately distracting.

The bartender tossed Everard the remote. "Should be good to go. There's an HDMI cable in the back if you can't screencast."

Everard didn't know what that meant, but he had wired his phone to his TV before to blow up blueprints.

He hooked up his phone, turned up the volume, started the video, then wandered back around to Brian.

The screen was black at first, when his phone had still been in his pocket.

"Too valuable to who?" came Everard's muffled voice, followed by Brian's voice whispering, "What are you doing?"

The Ailuromancer's guests turned to see what was playing, but continued their conversations. They went silent at Santa Muerte's voice.

"Don't play dumb. The Narco Saints are loyal to Undone Duncan."

The guests murmured as Santa Muerte encouraged Everard to join Undone Duncan. The screen still dark, the battle continued.

Everard looked for Bowman's reaction. He'd stood up from the bar. Slow realization came over his expression.

Loretta made eye contact with Everard. She glared, shook her head, then headed towards the CTO. She didn't approve of Everard's method, but she was still taking advantage of the distraction.

Recordings of Brian's music, Everard firing the flintlock, and plain old gunfire had replaced the buzzing conversation of the party.

"Turn this off," ordered Bowman.

"But I thought-" started the bartender.

"Turn it off!"

Everard and Brian shouted at each other. Fiametta Vine gave a little whimper at the fear in their voices.

The Ailuromancer had placed himself at the front of his guests. "Leave it playing. I want to know what it is."

The CEO came to Fitzwilliam's side. "Perhaps there's a better venue for this sort of entertainment."

Fitzwilliam kept his eyes glued to the dark screen. "Who turned this on."

Everard stood up. "I did."

The guests looked at him, but then back to the TV as Everard's phone was ripped from his pocket into the Narco Saint corpse's hand. The shot was crooked, but it clearly showed Everard, unarmed and silenced, next to Brian, cold and furious and circled by bits of pastel light. The light dashed at the camera, and the camera fell.

The shot remained still, pointed up at the bricks of the theater.

The CEO cleared his throat. "Fitzwilliam, it would be best if we turned this off."

The Ailuromancer held up a hand, quieting the CEO. "Why did you turn this on? What is so interesting on here that you interrupt my guests?"

"Inc tried to have me killed this morning."

"That's a lie," said Bowman.

In the video, Santa Muerte gave orders to the Narco Saints, and then made a call.

"And they killed Brian's sister."

Brian continued to pet the Persian, but his other hand reached for the speaker in his back pocket.

"I thought that was the Lynch Mobbers," said one of the guests.

"It was the Lynch Mobbers," said the CEO. "Mr. President confirmed it. Now can we please get back to enjoying our host's graciousness?"

"I still don't understand," said Fitzwilliam, "why the rebellist wants us all to see this. Is he showing off that he was beaten by a second rate gang?"

"I'm showing you that Inc is working with Undone Duncan's organization."

Bowman scoffed and started to yell but the CEO cut him off. "That's a heavy accusation, son."

"And they're the ones behind these booms. They're trying to force their enemies out of the city."

"The booms are probably fireworks," said the CEO.

The other guests murmured disagreement.

"At worst, they're some creation of the Perforated Woman."

Everard almost said and the CTO, but remembered at the last second not to draw attention to Loretta. He couldn't spot her, or the CTO.

On the video, Santa Muerte said, "they're here. About time."

Although the camera still filmed the sky and the theater wall, Bowman's arrogant tone and gravely voice was unmistakeable. "Did you kill him?"

"You said not to," answered Santa Muerte.

The guests gave varied reactions, most confused, a few looked offended for Bowman.

The Ailuromancer licked his lips. "This is better entertainment than I ever could have hoped to provide."

Santa Muerte tried to negotiate higher payment for Everard.

"Collecting the rebellist was part of the original contract," came Bowman's reply.

Fitzwilliam leaned close to the CEO's face, close enough that Everard felt uncomfortable for him. "Contract for what?"

Bowman strode for the TV. "That's clearly not my voice."

Everard moved to cut him off. "Don't touch that."

"Stop," spat the Ailuromancer. The animalistic fierceness of the order brought Everard to a halt. "Please don't touch my things."

Bowman took his hand off the TV. "It's not my voice," he said, more calmly.

There was nothing else incriminating on the video. Everard had scrolled through it several times, hoping for a chance glimpse of the wired barrel, but from here, the video only caught the sounds of Loretta rescuing them, followed by Santa Muerte picking up the phone and ending the recording.

He hoped Bowman's voice would be enough. "Everyone here recognizes it. You had Undone Duncan's gangs on the lookout for me."

Nuo Che cleared her throat. "It does sound like you."

"We shouldn't assume the worst," said Fiametta Vine.

"I'm not assuming. I'm asking for an explanation."

"There are benters who can imitate voices," said the CEO.

"No one knew they were being filmed," said Everard. "Why would they be imitating your voice right then?"

"To set me up!" Bowman turned off the TV. "Loretta could have done it."

He pointed to where she'd been, by the bar. Everyone looked at the empty barstools.

So much for a distraction. Everard had accidentally made the whole room look for her.

"Where'd she go?" asked Bowman. "Where's Whitten?"

"I see what this is." The CEO folded his hands in front of him. "Loretta has her lackey set up a ploy to distract us while she interrogates our CTO."

Everard shrugged. "You pretty much nailed it. Except the video is real. And everyone knows that Loretta is investigating the booms. So if she wants information on your Chief Technical Officer, that means her investigation led to you."

"She's got a vendetta against me," said Bowman.

"She's been known to be wrong before," said the CEO.

"Not often," said Fitzwilliam. His guests agreed.

"What are you accusing me of?" asked the CEO.

"No one's accusing you of anything," said Fiametta Vine. "But an explanation might ease our worries."

"Turn the game on!"

Everyone turned to see whose drunken call had interrupted the drama. The CTO slouched in the chair Everard had vacated. His tie was loose and he grinned stupidly. "Let's watch the game. I was almost drafted by the Ravens. You all know that, right?"

"Take care of him," the CEO ordered Bowman, who hurried to the CTO and yanked him to his feet.

"Loretta!" cried Fitzwilliam. "Welcome back."

Loretta leaned on the bar, drinking from a cocktail glass. "If I'd known you'd miss me so much, I'd never have left."

Bowman threw the CTO's arm around his neck and headed down the carpeted ramps.

The CEO surveyed the guests, fury exposed in his tightened jawline. "Fitzwilliam, for failure to provide security for your guests, consider your funding cut in half."

The Ailuromancer laughed. "A fair trade for tonight's entertainment."

"And the rest of you, the last thing this city needs is faction heads questioning Inc's leadership. Don't forget who funds your galas, your research, your medical supplies."

Fiametta Vine winced.

"If anyone has concerns about our commitment to eradicating crime in the Periphery, come discuss it at 12 Corcoran."

"Twelve and a half Corcoran, now," said Everard.

The CEO left.

Everard retrieved his phone. "Thanks for your help," he said cheerfully to the bartender, who'd gone pale.

"I can't think of any way we could improve upon that," said Fitzwilliam, "so why don't we call it a night after we've said our goodbyes?"

The guests gathered their belongings, had a final drink, and prepared to leave. Nuo Che and two others got Everard's contact information and asked for the video.

He felt proud of himself. Inc had tried to intimidate him and he'd struck back by almost toppling their skyscraper, and now exposing that they were working with Undone Duncan. Loretta had told him not to kick a wasp nest, but if you kept stomping just right, you'd crush all the wasps.

Brian came over to Everard. "You're insane, but that was awesome."

Loretta joined them. "We should leave. Keep your head down."

"What? Why?"

"Did you forget the part about the Ailuromancer inviting you here so he could kill you?"

A strong hand closed around Everard's shoulder. Claws bit into his skin. "Stay awhile," purred Fitzwilliam. "I insist."

Chapter Thirty-Two

Some of the guests lingered to watch the confrontation. The Ailuromancer kept his grip on Everard's shoulder.

Everard ignored the pain from the claws. "I'm afraid I've got somewhere to be." If these people saw him afraid of the Ailuromancer, it wouldn't matter that he'd just put Inc in their place. He'd still be weak enough for them to attack. He'd always be dependent on Bill Bill keeping him safe.

Loretta moved Fitzwilliam's hand. "The Burgesses hired me to keep him safe."

Fantastic. Now everyone saw him still needing protection.

"You misunderstand me. I want him to stay so I can help you."

"We're leaving," said Loretta.

"What did you find out from the CTO?" asked Fitzwilliam. "He told you about the converter, didn't he? Maybe the location of the other machines. But that's all he knows."

"How do you know about this?"

"I have eyes everywhere."

"Inside."

"Most of my family spend their waking hours staring out windows." Fitzwilliam tried to guide Everard to a couch. He didn't budge. "Not to mention, Shadow and Bethlehem tell me what their eyes see."

"You're right," said Loretta. "The CTO told me about the converter. So I don't need anything else."

"What's a converter?" asked Everard.

"Exactly what it sounds like," said Fitzwilliam. "It converts one sort of energy to another. This one draws energy from the atmosphere itself. It's usually used to harness the power of a storm, or maybe a massive protest march. This one's much bigger than any before, isn't it, Loretta?"

Loretta didn't answer.

"The CTO only knew where the energy is going. To the machines placed around the city. But where is it coming from, I wonder?"

"It doesn't matter." Loretta didn't sound so sure. "All I have to do is destroy the converter."

"It always pays to have a backup plan."

"He's got a point," said Everard.

"I thought you were just sticking around to get revenge on Inc," said Loretta.

"I can still have opinions about your noble quest." Plus, the guests still watching might interpret his silence as fear.

"Listen to the rebellist. Maybe knowing the source of energy will help dismantle the converter."

"It's not hard to break something," said Loretta.

"So if I stay and have a drink with you," Everard said loudly, "you tell us what's powering the booms?"

"Precisely."

"I'll do it." Everard watched the Ailuromancer, trying to gauge what made him so dangerous.

"You will not," said Loretta.

"Yeah, not a good idea," said Brian. "Meowmix here invited his rat counterpart over here a few years ago. He toyed with her for three hours before killing her."

"It's sometimes my nature," said Fitzwilliam.

Everard both needed to show those watching that he wasn't to be messed with, and to figure out his bent. Listening to Loretta obviously didn't work. "I said I'm staying."

"If I tell you what I know, then Loretta doesn't get to come charging back in here after you."

"I'll stay until I finish my drink, and then I'll call it a night."

Fitzwilliam considered. "You'll only leave under your own power? That sounds fun."

Everard offered a handshake. When Brian listed the "heavy hitters," he'd included the CEO, Loretta, Fiametta Vine, Undone Duncan—plus Mr. President and Bill Bill. Everard was a rebellist, too. Whatever made the Ailuromancer as tough as he was, Everard was just as big and bad. But only if he fully cast off authority. "Brian, Loretta, go out to the car. I'll only be a few minutes."

Fitzwilliam chuckled.

If Loretta was trying to communicate with her facial expression, the only message Everard was getting was that she was exhausted. "Whatever you want," she said.

"What, seriously?" asked Brian.

"He wants to stay, let him stay," said Loretta.

"How delightful!" The Ailuromancer clapped his hands.

"Tell us what you know, and we'll leave," said Loretta.

"How do I know you won't try to take him after I tell you what I know?" asked the Ailuromancer.

"You don't," said Loretta. "Maybe I'll take him anyways and call it your debt paid."

"Do you really want to try that?" asked the Ailuromancer. "Do you think you could? In my own home?"

"I'm leaving here on my own," said Everard. "If Loretta tries anything, I'll fight with you against her. I'm doing this."

"I accept your offer," said the Ailuromancer, quickly, as if afraid Everard would back out. "The power sources are flying to this city as we speak. The more sensitive benters have been dreaming about them for days now."

"We didn't agree on you spouting riddles," said Loretta. "Be direct."

"Direct is boring. At least let me tell you the series of coincidences that led to my obtaining this knowledge." Fitzwilliam circled the couches, gesturing with his cocktail glass. "A kind fellow who lives over in Cleveland Park decided he wanted a Cornish Rex, while his wife wanted a Devon Rex. They made the best kind of compromise and chose both. There are six Cornish Rex breeders in the D.C. metro area, and three Devon Rex breeders. None of them had kittens available, and this kind fellow and his wife are not the patient type."

"Neither are we," said Loretta.

"They are the polite type," spat Fitzwilliam. "As I was saying, they had to find their new family members outside the city. They selected a Cornish Rex breeder in Barnagat Township, New Jersey, and Devon Rex breeder in Welsch, West Virginia. After a weekend of driving, they brought two new inside cats into my city. I have access to new minds every day, but these were brought in from outside the metro area, and I always enjoy sharing their exploration of a world of new and curious smells, sights, and sounds."

"And things to kill," said Brian.

"That's more the purview of Shadow and Bethlehem," said Fitzwilliam. As his pacing brought him past Everard, he caressed a retracted claw across the back of Everard's neck. "Unless it strikes my fancy, of course."

"Get on with your story," said Loretta.

"Neither of my new cats had the usual curiosity. Instead, both their minds were the frazzled tatters of newly orphaned ferals hiding from an owl. Sometimes I forget how much protection I extend to the cats of D.C., but this was beyond natural fear. I probed their memories to see why they felt so terrified. The towns they came from were the hunting grounds of terrible creatures. They'd been thrilled to leave, but on their drives to our city, they sensed their predators had already started the journey. The kind fellow arrived first - these predators are taking their time - but the cats saw where their predators were heading."

"What kind of predators are we talking?" asked Everard.

"Based on where they're coming from," said Loretta, "the Jersey Devil and the Mothman."

"And Inc's just going to hook them up and use their energy?" asked Brian. "How would they capture them?"

"You can't capture them," laughed Fitzwilliam. "Something is drawing them here. They're each hearing the other. Two apex predators with an unspoken truce to leave the city as a no-mans-land between their hunting grounds, each sensing the other breaking that truce. They'll battle, and Undone Duncan's machine will use the energy of their battle."

"That's why the machine's both pushing and pulling," said Everard.

Loretta covered her mouth. "That fight could destroy half the city."

"It makes you wonder if their plans are truly worth it, doesn't it?" said Fitzwilliam.

"You know more about Inc's plans?" asked Everard.

"I believe I've answered your original questions and fulfilled my part of our deal. Unless you have something else to offer me in exchange for further questions, it's time your friends be on their way."

The color had left Loretta's face. "Come on, Brian. We'll make a few phone calls while we wait."

Everard swallowed. He wasn't getting in over his head, because this was his decision. He was actively avoiding letting her be his authority. As soon as she left, he felt confident he'd be able to deny anything just like Bill Bill could.

The Ailuromancer raised his voice. "I'm afraid the party is truly over. Please make your way to the exit."

Brian gave Everard a worried smile and a thumbs-up before following Loretta and the remaining guests down the ramp and back through the courtyard.

The Ailuromancer wandered over behind a couch that faced Everard. The cats joined him by hopping up on the back of the couch, rubbing their shoulders against his tuxedo jacket and their cheeks against his knuckles. "I thought they'd never leave."

"What do you want from me?" asked Everard.

The cats jumped down from the couch. With little more than a flick of his wrist, the Ailuromancer hurled the couch at Everard.

No. The mental mist was thinner. Everard's will smashed through.

The couch's trajectory twisted, and it crashed into the carpeted wall behind him.

The Ailuromancer adjusted his shirt cuffs. "Let's play."

Everard sprinted around the third floor walkway, Fitzwilliam chasing after him. The Ailuromancer shifted effortlessly between running on the floor, and digging his claws into the wall to pull himself along.

Everard denied his pursuer's balance. The mist stayed thin, but his will couldn't find its way out.

The Ailuromancer kept coming.

Everard cursed. No one had authority over him. Why hadn't that worked?

Fitzwilliam caught up in a great leap and tackled Everard from behind. Clawed toes dug into Everard's back as he hit the floor, rugburn ripped into his palms. He gasped at the sting.

The Ailuromancer landed on his feet. "What happened to your machismo?"

"Fuck off." Everard grabbed the flintlock from his waistband.

Before he could even aim, Fitzwilliam was on top of him, armed reared back to strike, claws extended.

No. His will pushed out of the weight.

The Ailuromancer struck Everard's arm. The flintlock flew off the ledge, and his arm exploded in pain, but the blow had landed with retracted claws. Fitzwilliam hissed, exposing fangs. "You don't deny me!" His claws flexed back out. "Don't ever touch my body with your freakish tricks."

Everard scrambled backwards as Fitzwilliam attacked. Again, his blows landed with claws retracted. His chest heaved as he stood over Everard. "The last person who insulted me I let live for several weeks. Not you."

An open palm hit Everard's ribs, and he thought he felt something crack. Claws or no, he couldn't win a fight against that level of strength, especially with his bent flickering on and off like a strobe light. "How did I insult you?"

"Impersonating me!"

Everard rolled away from a kick, jumped to his feet, and sprinted down the walkway, toward the ramp. He tried again to trip Fitzwilliam. Nothing. "I didn't mean to!"

Fitzwilliam hissed, spittle flying out from his mouth. Everard dropped and the tuxedoed man flew overhead. He thought for sure Fitzwilliam would stumble, but again he landed on his feet, and now he blocked the closest ramp. Everard ran the other direction.

"I've spent decades crafting my reputation! I don't do a thing in the public eye without planning how I'll be perceived. And you ruined it!"

"I told people I wasn't you!"

"Who said anything about people?"

Everard glanced back. The Ailuromancer leapt from wall to floor and back, moving quickly but only slowly gaining on Everard. The next closest ramp was a hundred feet away. He'd never get there, but maybe he could make his own. He thought of the walkway in front of him, its sturdiness. He tried to deny it, but only felt a mild shake under his feet. The weight thickened around his mind.

Fitzwilliam was closing the distance, but apparently he enjoyed arguing enough to let it distract him.

"Come on, I'm on your side." Everard rounded the corner. If the whole walkway was too much, maybe he could just target the bolts.

The Ailuromancer scoffed. "Nothing could be further from the truth."

"Then why'd you save me last night?" He didn't know the exact location of the bolts holding up the walkway, but he thought of the general area, and denied that they were strong enough to hold up the beams. Precise lances of his will parted the mist.

With an echoing crack, the far end of the walkway fell to the level below, creating a makeshift ramp. "That'll work," Everard said, running down it. Thick bubbles appeared in the carpet, fallout from Everard's bent.

"I wanted to kill you myself. Everyone has to know the punishment for insulting me."

Everard pulled his trick again to end up on the second floor walkway—this time black flowers sprouted when he denied the bolts—and then sprinted down an actual ramp. The flintlock had landed beside a leather couch. Everard dashed towards it. His fingers closed around the handle as Fitzwilliam landed inches in front of him.

"I swear," said Everard. "I'm on your side."

He fired a burst of sound into the Ailuromancer's gut. It launched the man spinning through the air, but he turned the wild spin into a graceful whirl, and landed on his feet. He inspected the hole the blast had made in his clothes. "This was my favorite shirt."

Everard fired again. The blast took Fitzwilliam in the chin. His neck snapped back and he fell toward the floor. In one moment, his head was about to smash into the floor. In the next, he'd landed on his feet, rubbing his jaw.

"How are you doing that?" demanded Everard.

"I may not be able to tweak reality in all the variety of ways that Loretta can, or with the fantastic exuberance of the CEO, or even with the raw power of your stubborn little bent," Fitzwilliam said, adjusting his lapels, "but what I do, I do consistently and effortlessly, like any cat should. No matter how hard you hit me, or how dead a lesser man would be-"

"You always land on your feet," Everard finished.

"You don't sound impressed."

"Oh no, I am." Everard shot him once more, for good measure. It knocked him back, but again he glided to his feet. "It's just frustrating. The first time I attempted something on my own, I end up facing some impossibly big demon thing. And now when I try it again, it turns out I challenged an immortal Thundercat."

"I'm not immortal. Someday I'll die of old age."

"Or you'll start pissing the carpet and the vet will have to put you down."

Fitzwilliam tried to respond and hiss at the same time. He really didn't like being insulted. But Everard was stuck on something his dumb joke had reminded him. "What will your allies think if you kill me?"

"My only allies are the D.C. factions. And only when it benefits me."

"I'm not talking about politics." Everard stood and brushed his jeans off. He tucked away the pistol. "I'm talking about the feline friends of D.C."

Fitzwilliam stood almost nose to nose with him. His breath smelled like fish. "You're allergic."

"I rescued George. Killed the reskinned who hurt him. And I gave him my sandwich."

The Ailuromancer gaped. "You're not... he didn't... hold on."

"If I'd left him, what would Undone Duncan have done to him?"

Fitzwilliam's siblings and cousin stood in the doorway, Bethlehem behind Shadow. Roland looked ready to pounce with his claw out. They were longer and sharper than Fitzwilliam's.

"That woman who shook his cage. She attacked me again later." He patted the flintlock. "She won't ever hurt another cat."

"He's right," said Shadow. "I saw George after they got away from the Junk Shoals. That inside looked fat and happy."

"I know what happened," hissed Fitzwilliam.

Bethlehem whispered something into Shadow's ear. "Oh that's a good point. Everard also kinda saved George's balls."

"I said I know what happened!"

Everard hadn't considered that, and although it wasn't exactly how it went down, now wasn't the time to argue. "Your bent depends on the cats respecting you, doesn't it?"

"I'm one of them, of course they respect me!"

"That's why you're merciless with anyone who hurts them. And why you had to kill the rat lady."

"I did that because I enjoyed it."

"And because the sadistic little furballs would enjoy it. If they don't see you as the biggest, baddest housecat, do you lose your power?"

The Ailuromancer shook with rage.

"Do you want me to kill him?" asked Roland. "You can tell the cats I disobeyed your orders. Banish me from the city for a few months."

"Yes, that might work."

"Careful," said Everard, pointing to the purebreds who had followed them down from the top floor. "Little pitchers have big ears." It was a gamble. Maybe these cats were ultra loyal to the Ailuromancer. But Everard doubted it. No one was too loyal to spread gossip.

"You can't let him go," said Roland. "He insulted you."

"But he's a hero right now," said Shadow. "Can you afford that political capital? The Persians are already upset about the lower meat content in the Bright Feast cans."

"They know I'm working on that!"

Shadow held up his palms. "I'm just saying."

"Tell you what," said Everard, "you already knocked me around a bit. Look at this, my hands are raw from the carpet, and I'm like seventy percent sure you cracked my rib. That should be enough punishment to maintain your reputation. The neighbors' cats will spread the rumor that you invited me over as a hero, and these guys here will spread the rumor that you kicked the shit out of me. Everyone believes what they want, and you stay on top."

The Ailuromancer touched an extended claw to Everard's cheek. Everard didn't deny it.

"It's not a bad idea," said Roland.

Fitzwilliam slashed a two-inch gash in Everard's skin.

"Ow, what the hell? I didn't have to let you do that." He wiped away blood.

"And I didn't have to let you live. Think about that every time you look in the mirror. Now get out of my house." The Ailuromancer walked back up the ramp.

"Now hold up," said Everard. "You said you know more of Inc's plan. Who are they targeting? The Burgesses?"

"I've already told you what I agreed to." He walked away.

Roland stared down Everard.

"Let's get you out of here," said Shadow, moving to escort Everard past his massive cousin. Bethlehem followed several paces behind.

Everard rubbed his wounds as they walked back through the fancy hallway, alleyway-courtyard, and savannah-foyer.

He'd heard of the Jersey Devil and the Mothman from urban legend, but since he'd discovered the Periphery, the line between myth and reality was a lot blurrier.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Outside, crickets filled the night air with their chirps. The other guests had left, leaving only Loretta and Brian standing by the car, flashlights keeping away the darkness. Compared to the air conditioned house, the night air felt warm and sticky.

Loretta ended a phone call when she saw Everard. As he approached his friends, his ribs rebelled in a flash of pain. He tried not to wince.

Brian put his hands on his hips like a parent scolding a child who'd touched a hot stove, "what did you learn?"

"I feel like you're expecting me to say 'don't pick fights,' but I kicked his ass."

"Sure you did," said Loretta. "Now let's go. We need to meet with Mr. President and regroup."

"What did you find out from the CTO?"

"You're interested in helping now?"

He still just wanted to go home and get away from all this. He'd sacrificed his relationship with Abby, but he still wanted his life back. He had a feeling that outing Inc had only been kicking the wasps nest a second time. Sure, the mud and wasp saliva was crumbling, but the wasps were still mad as hell. It made the most sense to stick around and stomp a few more wasps. "I'm interested in showing Inc what happens when they threaten and attack me."

"You're either going to get yourself killed, or end up getting comfortable in the Periphery."

"I'm not interested in staying involved."

"We picked up on that," said Brian. "What with you saying it over and over again."

"What did you learn from the CTO?" Everard asked again.

"Exactly what the Ailuromancer said. He helped design a converter, and route the power to the Perforated Woman's machines."

"So now what?" asked Everard. "Destroy the converter. Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, and yes. Although technically I was hired to prove Inc was behind the booms, so first we'll go to the Burgesses and show them the proof."

"Then who's paying you to stop Inc?"

"No one. We're doing this for similar reasons," said Loretta. "You want to warn them off you, and I'm just tired of that smug look on Bowman's face. You might even be helpful now; I'm assuming you figured out your bent if you got away from the Ailuromancer alive?"

She must have realized what he'd been attempting by ignoring her and staying behind. "It was stronger, but still inconsistent."

"Maybe ignoring me isn't your answer."

"Listening to you sure as hell isn't, either."

"You're welcome to take off whenever you want. I'll even tell you what cities Undone Duncan doesn't have any contacts in, so you can effectively hide from all your problems."

"I already told you, I'm sticking around until Inc's scared of me."

"Then you'll do what I say." Loretta sat down and closed the door behind her.

"Yeah, we'll see," muttered Everard

"How'd you get away from the Ailuromancer if you're still struggling with your bent?" asked Brian.

"I didn't take a cat to get neutered, then shot a lady in the head."

"That makes sense." Brian nailed the line between sincerity and irony. He opened the driver's side door.

A man in a suit walked out of the shadows from around the corner of the house. Leather soles tapped on the sidewalk drive.

Everard drew the flintlock. "Stop," he ordered.

The newcomer's face was too narrow to be any of the suits who'd been inside, and his gait too unsure.

"Uh, Loretta?" said Brian.

A floodlight with a motion sensor clicked on, and Everard saw the man from the CEO's office, the poor host who'd almost escaped and then got tangled up in one of the suits.

"Everard, isn't it?" he said. "I'd like a word."

Rage overpowered his exhaustion. Everard strode towards the prisoner in his own body. Maybe he didn't have the control over his bent like Bill Bill and Mr. President, but he could get creative.

The suit stepped back, held up a hand. "Now hold on, I just want to talk."

With a small burst of belligerence, Everard undid every buckle, button, and lace on the newcomer's body.

"Wait," said Brian.

The parasite and its host stumbled, trying to hold up loose pants and undone shoes.

Loretta's door opened.

Everard shoved the smaller man to the sidewalk. He felt a twinge of guilt at scraping up the guy's hands, but he was pretty sure he'd be understanding.

"Now hold on!" repeated the parasite. "I'm on your side."

"The hell you are," said Everard, flipping him over and ripping off his jacket. "No one like you will ever be on my side."

"I want to take down the CEO!" he shouted, as Everard pulled his thousand dollar shoes off his feet.

"Fuck your politics." Everard yanked off the parasite's pants. As soon as they came free, the host doubled over, clutching his temples. "Are you alright?"

The freed man jumped into a crouch, shirttails hanging free over white boxers. "Out of my left foot keep him away like three toes."

Careful not to get to close to the suit lying on the cement, Everard eased toward him. "Easy, buddy."

"Through thorough throughout birthday parties but no ice cream cake." His gaze leapt from Everard to Brian to Loretta.

"What do we do with this guy?" Everard turned to look at Loretta. The moment Everard's eyes were averted, the freed man sprinted into the woods.

"I guess that answers that," said Brian.

"We should leave," said Loretta.

"But what about him?" Everard pointed into the trees.

"The man you just forcibly stripped?" asked Brian. "Personally, I wouldn't want to chase a naked man through Forest Hills. Someone will call the cops, and good luck explaining that one."

"He's right," said Loretta. "Grab that suit and let's go. Only touch the outside."

Everard carefully picked up the suit, shirt, and shoes and threw them in the trunk.

They all jumped in the car.

"He might have helped us," said Loretta.

"He was holding that man prisoner."

"That man is halfway to insane already. They get a suit on you, you start disappearing pretty quick."

"Better insane than like that."

"So back to the Hall of Burgesses?" asked Brian.

"Yes," said Loretta. "But don't go down the driveway. Bowman's probably waiting."

"Do you see another exit?" asked Everard.

"I can maneuver through the trees," said Brian.

Everard held on as the sedan bounced through the thick forest. A branch scratch across the door. They came out in another yard, narrowly avoided crashing into a swimming pool, and left Forest Hills through a different route.

As they drove back towards the Capitol building, Everard gingerly touched his aching ribs. They harmonized perfectly with growing welt on his head.

Better than the male/female vocals in the song Brian had playing.

"Anyone have painkillers? Or more of whatever Fiametta was handing out this afternoon?"

Loretta handed him a packet of aspirin. "Best I can do."

Everard swallowed the pills dry. "Can we talk about what Fitzwilliam said in there? The Mothman and the Jersey Devil?"

"Go ahead," said Loretta.

"For starters, what are they?"

"Scary as hell," said Brian. "The Jersey Devil is the fastest, strongest, hungriest creature on the east coast."

"The Mothman is an outcast from a nook far outside the Periphery," said Loretta, "and it brought the physics of its home with it. Like the Ailuromancer said, both are apex predators. They hunt people. The Jersey Devil literally, the Mothman in less definable ways."

"What happens when they fight?" asked Everard.

"Aside from filling the atmosphere with enough energy to power the Perforated Woman's machine and kill hundreds of people? Lots of collateral damage. The Jersey Devil loose in the city will be like a bull in a china shop."

"And the Mothman will be like a telepathic Salvador Dali in a china shop," said Brian.

"How do we stop them from fighting?"

"It's too late for that. The Central Nook will see a tornado or a hurricane. If they take cover, there won't be many casualties. Physical casualties at least. Not much you can do against the Mothman. Our best bet is to make sure their power isn't used for mass murder."

"You're not going to try to stop them?"

"I'm trying to tell you, I'd need a year to plan and a month to prepare. And I'd be the first one in history to stop something like that."

"She's not lying," said Brian. "A few years ago, the Iku-Turso wandered into the Caribbean, which any idiot knows is defended by the Madre de Aguas. Their fight lasted a week and ended up flooding New Orleans."

"All while every benter for a thousand miles tried to stop them," added Loretta.

"You're really making it sound like we should be preventing this fight."

"D.C. won't flood. Cities survive hurricanes all the time. But those thousand people can't just hunker down to avoid a bent-touched machine microwaving their insides. Our best bet is to destroy the converter."

"We're just ignoring the fact that two urban legends are about to fight here?" said Everard. "I just about died to get that info."

"I didn't ask you to do that. I told you not to." She opened the passenger door. "It's good that you did, though. You stood down the Ailuromancer. That'll scare people off you for a little while at least. Speaking of which, record what happened and send it to a dozen different people with instructions to distribute it if you die. See if Shadow will corraborate your story. Make sure the Ailuromancer's reputation gets destroyed if he kills you. Only seven more reality benters to go."

"What do you mean?"

"There's nine people in the city who can bend reality to their will, in one way or another. We keep each other in check through mutually assured destruction. You need a clear threat to seven more of us."

"Including you."

"I'll let you make that decision."

"And what's your threat against me?"

"I don't need a dead man's switch to get revenge on you if you kill me," said Loretta. "You're not good enough to kill me yet."

"Fair point," said Everard. He rubbed his forehead. Was warning off Inc enough? None of the other reality benters seemed to care about him. "Oh, I'm an idiot."

"Agreed," said Loretta, "but what tipped you off?"

"I should have kept that video of Bowman. Used it as my standing threat against the CEO." They leave him alone, call off Undone Duncan, and Everard goes home. Except he already went and played his trump card.

"That would have been selfish," said Brian.

"Isn't that true of this entire mutually assured destruction thing?"

No one had an answer for that. They sat in silence until they reached the Capitol.

Chapter Thirty-Four

They entered the Hall of Burgesses through the door on the Capitol building veranda.

Inside, Bluecoats stood guard around the main hall, at least twenty of them. Everard guessed they were stationed at every other entrance, too. Civilian Burgesses hurried about, far more than Everard had seen before. It probably took a lot of paperwork to stop a supernatural terrorist attack.

A few people in regular clothes hung about as well. Everard recognized the two Minutemen who'd saved him in Undone Duncan's workshop.

"They look like they're preparing for war," said Everard.

"They are," said Loretta. "Mr. President doesn't want an open conflict with Inc, but he'll give it to them if that's what it takes to stop mass murder."

Another boom—only slightly muffled by being inside the Hall of Burgesses—paused the bustle of bureaucrats.

Everard saw another familiar face barking orders: Mr. President's attendant, Minnie. She noticed them and hurried over.

"Loretta, Mr. President would like a personal report about the information you've sent over."

"Hello to you, too," said Brian.

Minnie flipped through her clipboard. "And Everard, Bill Bill wants to see you." She walked away.

"See what Bill Bill wants," said Loretta, "then meet me at Mr. President's office. I want to take out the converter tonight."

Brian went with Everard. They found Bill Bill in the same office as two nights ago. He'd replaced the coloring book with a map of the city.

"Everard!" the old man stood up. "You here to deny my limp?"

Everard had almost forgotten about that. If he denied Bill Bill's limp, Bill Bill would protect him. That wasn't enough anymore. It stopped being enough as soon as the Lynch Mobbers tried to kill him in the Burgesses' own stronghold.

"No," said Everard. "Minnie said you wanted to see me."

"Right, right." Bill Bill set a paperweight on top of the map to keep it from furling. "I hear you've had all sorts of adventures today."

"I decided to be proactive about my safety."

Bill Bill laughed. "That's one way of putting it. You three have Inc running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to save face."

"And still trying to kill a lot of people. You among them, I assume."

Bill Bill scratched at his sideburns. "That's the assumption we're working under. Bermuda says the current machines could target three to five hundred people. That's enough for all the Burgesses, and the leadership of the other National factions."

"What about us?" asked Brian. "Capitol Bohemia and the No-Goes."

"Hard to say," said Bill Bill. "Inc is all about technicalities, which would mean you'd be fine. But this current CEO is more emotional than most. So who knows."

"Did you call me in here to talk about this?" asked Everard.

"No, to tell you that your sister is free."

"What?" The news hit Everard as hard as the Ailuromancer's blows, which surprised him. What did he care about some woman he'd never met?

"Ryker's free?" asked Brian. "How'd you do it?"

"I didn't. A team broke into the submarine holding her, but she wasn't there. She'd already escaped."

Everard had never met his sister, but that didn't stop him from feeling pride. "Wait. How do you know she wasn't just killed?"

"Because she showed up here a couple hours ago. Someone tipped her off the rebellist is her brother. She wants to meet you."

Everard's mind had been elsewhere since discovering he had a half-sister. He'd never known her, and had established his life just fine without a family. But now with the opportunity right in front of him, he had to at least say hi.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Bill Bill escorted Everard through the antique hallways, Brian trailing along after them. In stretches without candelabras close by, work lights were set up. Orange extension cords ran along the wood floors. Burgesses ran back and forth, preparing for whatever their leaders had planned.

Everard composed a text to Abby. I messed up earlier. Can we talk?

"Ryker's a fugitive from the federal government," said Bill Bill, "so it'd be bad news if anyone discovered we were harboring her, even if it's only for a few minutes."

Everard put his phone away without sending the text. "Don't worry. I'm not on good terms with the feds."

"Don't tell Mr. President, is what I'm saying."

"Ah, gotcha," said Everard, and mimed zipping his lips.

"What are you gonna say to her?" asked Brian.

"I don't know," said Everard. "I just want to meet her. See what she's like. Shouldn't you be catching up with Loretta?"

"Nah. I'm supposed to help you. I'm just helping Loretta because you are."

Everard wasn't sure he believed that. Even easy-going Brian would want to see Inc punished for Renae's death.

Bill Bill led them into a sitting room, with two pairs of doors on the far wall. A clerk in colonial attire sat behind a desk, playing a game on his phone. "Go on in, but you'll need an ID badge if you want to check anything out." He looked up and saw Bill Bill. He set his phone down and sat up straight. "Sorry, sir. Anything I can help you find?"

"Contemporary oppressive social structures," said Bill Bill.

The clerk said, "two floors down, east wing." Then a look of realization hit him. "Oh. She's a floor up, south hall."

"Thanks, Oliver," said Bill Bill.

Oliver beamed that Bill Bill knew his name.

Bill Bill faced Everard. "I'll be with Mr. President where you found us before." He walked away.

Brian rocked on his heels with his hands in his pockets.

"So are you coming in with me, or..."

"No, I'll let you meet your sister in private." Brian was terrible at faking a smile. Poor guy had to come back to where his sister was murdered just yesterday. "I'll be here when you're done."

"Okay, thanks," said Everard, wondering how long Brian was going to stick around with him.

Oliver handed Everard a flashlight. "I commandeered as many worklights as I could, but there's still some shadowy areas. Try to stay out of them."

Everard thanked him and went through the doors, into the biggest library he'd ever seen. Abby would love this. Twenty-foot high shelves stretched at least a thousand feet ahead. He stood on metal floors, the kind that looked like chain-link fence but coated in a thick layer of plastic. Floors extended far below and above.

"Everard."

Everard nearly jumped out of his skin. His cracked rib protested.

Loretta leaned against the wall by the doorway. "I heard you've got family in town."

"I found out like two minutes ago. I thought you were talking to Mr. President."

"I wanted to catch up with Ryker first. I need another favor."

"If it's about stopping Inc, it's not really a favor. We're on the same team."

"Then I have another order for you."

"Not better."

"Shut up and listen. The Resistance is planning an assault on an NSA Explorer outpost."

"Where they force people to explore past the Periphery? Sounds like a good plan."

"They're planning it for tonight."

"Good. They take her captive, she hits them back." Maybe they were more alike than just sharing the same mother.

"The branch of the NSA that monitors the Periphery isn't a large organization," said Loretta. "They'll be completely distracted tonight."

"Oh," said Everard. "So if your plan to destroy the converter goes south..."

"No NSA to step in."

Everard leaned against the wall next to Loretta. "Awfully convenient timing for Inc."

"My guess is Inc had a hand in her escape, whether she realized it or not. Not hard to figure out she'd make a move as soon as she could."

"You want me to talk her out of attacking the outpost?"

"God, no. Those places should be swallowed up by the nooks beyond the Periphery. I want you to talk her into putting it off for a day. I hate to rely on the NSA, even as a failsafe, but I've got a feeling things are going to get dangerous tonight, and most of the benters who could do something about it have already cut town."

"Why don't you talk to her yourself?"

"I did. That's how I know her plans. She wouldn't listen to me."

"So I'm a last ditch effort?"

"I've got faith in you."

"I don't see why she'd listen to me, but I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks." Loretta left through the door, prompting a concerned Oliver to ask how she got in there.

Everard took the stairs. He expected his steps to echo, but the space was too massive. He went one floor down, and followed the signs to the south hall. It looked exactly like the rest of the library, books for miles, all resting on steel shelving atop steel flooring.

He found Ryker sitting on the floor, a book open in her lap. She was smaller than him, with light brown hair pulled into a quick bun. She wore loose fitting cargo pants, and a sleeveless shirt. Everard didn't know the details of his family, but by his skin tone and facial structure, he'd assumed he had a mixture of white, black, and hispanic grandparents. Ryker's skin had the same color as his, although it was obvious she'd been trapped inside for months; there was a pale, sickly, shade to her, and she was mostly skin and bones.

"Ryker." Everard's heart raced. He hadn't expected to feel this happy.

She looked up. "You're Everard." Setting down the book, she carefully climbed to her feet.

Everard took a step forward, and then struggled with the appropriate physical greeting. They shook hands. He didn't have a clue what to say. "How was your cruise?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Longer than expected. Thanks for agreeing to talk to me."

"Of course," said Everard. He tried to find logic in his happiness. He didn't know this woman. It was great she wasn't trapped and paralyzed anymore, he guessed. And that she could go back to resisting the government.

"You're new to the Periphery," she said.

"Yeah."

"Thoughts?"

"I'm leaving as soon as I can get Inc to leave me alone. I have a life to get back to."

"Oh."

Everard's mood shifted to concern. Not for Ryker, but for himself. That didn't make sense.

Ryker noticed his confusion. "I'm sorry," she said. "I haven't been using my bent for months, and it's kinda hard to control. I influence others’ emotions."

He found himself disappointed that his excitement hadn't been genuine.

"I'll stop," she said.

She didn't do a great job, as he went right back to optimistic excitement. He didn't let it bother him; worse things had happened to him in the Periphery.

"Why are you leaving?" she asked. "Aren't you a rebellist? You could have a serious impact here. Even if you knock Inc down a peg, crime is still rampant, and the government comes down harder and harder on people every day."

"I'm sorry." Why were they even talking about this? Wasn't helping against Inc enough? "I have a business, and a... a girlfriend." Had.

"There's businesses and girlfriends in the Periphery," she said. "And it's not like you'll be able to close your eyes to it. You'll still see 12 Cocoran on the skyline, and all sorts of other Periphery intrusions. I heard about the Mariner's Box. Good work, by the way."

Everard wondered if that's how his mother would have looked at him with pride. "Yeah, well, I'd rather just keep myself to myself, you know?"

"No, actually. I didn't know you existed until this morning. Did you know our mother?"

Everard shook his head. "Or my father."

"Yeah, me neither. My first set of foster parents adopted me, though. I lived with them as far back as I can remember."

"How'd you discover the Periphery?" asked Everard.

"My dad's a Hoodoo man. My adoptive dad, obviously. I grew up knowing both parts of the city. My parents were surprised when I developed my bent, but they ended up being happy about it."

Everard bet they did.

"I'm guessing you had a more bumpy introduction?" she asked.

"The Perforated Woman attacked me. And some guy with two tongues."

"Jakes," said Ryker. "He's a good guy. Probably would have taken you to the Burgesses."

"I broke his knee."

They stood facing each other, awkwardly.

"You lead the Resistance," said Everard.

"I hate that name, but yes." She stiffened.

"Why?"

"The NSA's watching everything we do. And everyone just looks the other way when someone disappears. They tell themselves it's Undone Duncan making another reskinned, but there aren't that many reskinned. The feds snatch people up then force them to explore the nooks beyond the Periphery. If they come back, it's damaged. Sometimes it's fairly benign, like Jakes. Other times, it warps you, inside and out."

"Like the Perforated Woman," said Everard. Or the little girl he'd seen outside the Junk Shoals, with the extra leg coming out of her lower back. "Why do they care about exploring?"

"Bill Bill thinks it's because they're worried enemies of the United States might use the nooks to sneak a nuclear bomb past our borders. But the nooks don't work like that. It could take centuries to find a consistent path to where you wanted to go. I think someone in the NSA has other plans."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, or care that much, to be honest. I'm mainly upset about them forcing my friends to explore."

"I would be, too."

"We're always looking for more people to join the cause. Perfect cause for a rebellist to get behind. There's a chance to do make a difference, real soon."

Everard shook his head. "There's a million injustices in the world. I can't fix all of them."

"The NSA's watchers know who you are now. You'll never have privacy again."

"As long as I keep to myself, will they care?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. That's not the point. Do you realize how much power that gives the NSA? Everyone's afraid to speak out against the explorer outposts, because they never know when the watchers are recording them."

"I mean, it's obviously messed up, but it's not enough to risk my life over." He felt bad about it, but he'd spent a decade building his independent life. He couldn't risk it now, especially for some doomed cause.

"That's how people like the NSA take power."

Everard bit his tongue. He didn't even know this woman. It didn't matter what she thought of him. "Do you have a first name?" he asked.

"I'm glad I met you, Everard," said Ryker, "but I have enough people in my life too comfortable to face down oppression. Enjoy your Periphery-free life. Good luck convincing the CEO to leave you alone."

She reshelved the book and walked away, shoes tapping on the metal floor.

Shit. He should have brought up her attack on the Explorer's outpost before he pissed her off. No way around it now. "Your plans tonight."

Ryker stopped. "How do you know about that? Who have you told?"

"I just found out. I haven't told anyone. But you have to pick another night."

"Not happening. They kept me strapped to a submarine's engine for four months. I couldn't do anything but blink. I want them to know what happens when they pick a fight with me."

"Do it tomorrow," said Everard. "There's some serious shit going down tonight. Hundreds of people could die. The NSA could be another line of defense, if you're not distracting them."

"Or they'll be too distracted to fully defend their outpost," said Ryker.

"I don't think they realize the danger of what's happening tonight. And from what I understand they hate you enough that they'll let it happen if it means recapturing you."

"If Loretta couldn't convince me, what makes you think you will?"

"You're just going to look the other way while hundreds of people are murdered?"

"That means a lot coming from you. How about you run away with your tail between your legs like you've planned, and let me handle my business the way I see fit. Take care, Everard. Let's get together for the holidays." She walked away.

Everard fumed. He'd never met someone so bullheaded and infuriating. He headed back the way he came. This was why he was perfectly happy not knowing his family. The more people he had to please, the harder it was to stay in control of his own life. He didn't need her approval.

As he made his way back to the sitting room, he deleted the text he'd composed to Abby.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Back in the foyer, Brian was making Oliver listen to a song featuring a typical rock ensemble and an excruciatingly slowly played accordion. The lyrics made absolutely no sense.

The clerk breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Everard.

Brian perked up. "How'd it go?"

"Great," said Everard, not slowing.

Brian fell in step next to him. The Burgesses they passed frowned at the music. "We headed to Mr. President's office? Supposedly, there's like a full fledge emergency meeting going on."

Where was he going? He wanted to clear his head. He should still send that text to Abby. Ryker being stubborn didn't change that.

Brian paused the music. "Mr. President might have plans to stop the booms. If you're still planning on stopping Inc, makes sense to work with him, right?"

Everard needed a moment without the kid jabbering at him. "I need to run to the bathroom. Go ahead to Mr. President. I'll catch up."

"Whatever you say." Brian left Everard leaning against the wall in the hallway.

Everard tried to gather his thoughts. It was stupid to feel disappointment from meeting Ryker. He'd only looked forward to it for about five minutes before it happened. She was probably still influencing his emotions. But if she was disappointed, then maybe that meant there was a chance that meeting could have ended with Everard actually having family.

A Burgess bureaucrat shuffled past.

This was insane. He opened his phone to call Abby, then stopped himself. Why had he done that? When things got stressful, talking to her kept things in perspective. And now he'd ruined for that because a crazy old man told him it would help his superpowers work better.

Fuck it. He was calling her.

Everard hit send. It went straight to voicemail, but he didn't think leaving a message was the best choice in this situation.

He started walking towards the main foyer. There was probably a quicker way to Mr. President's office, cutting through back halls, but Everard didn't want to wander down some corridor where he'd break through the floor into some space between nooks.

He should send Abby a text, ask her to call him. She'd see it once she turned her phone back on. He checked his watch. It was almost eleven. Why would she have her phone off?

Everard got a bad feeling about mutually assured destruction. He texted Abby, asking her to call him, and then called Liz.

Straight to voicemail.

He scrolled through his contacts, looking for Liz's group home number. He'd never saved it. Google didn't bring it up, either.

Everard quickened his pace. It was probably fine. Liz did turn her phone off sometimes. And maybe Abby's battery died. He'd go ask Loretta, and she'd tell him they were fine.

He rushed through the hallways, stared down the posted Regulars as he walked into Mr. President's office.

The room was packed with important angry people. Mr. President raised his hands, trying to calm everyone.

Loretta was nowhere to be seen. Everard texted her, where are you?, while someone interrupted Mr. President.

Minnie, in her usual location at Mr. President's right hand, raised her voice at those gathered, which only prompted an equal response.

Lucy stood up, still wearing her red dress, but apparently casting off her timidness to heighten the mild fury she'd shown the other night. "First you set the Boogeyman loose on the east side, and now this? What if these new monsters don't care about your lure? You don't care, do you? Because you'll hunker down in your nook here." She flipped her wrist, gesturing to the rest of the room. "And you'll all hide out in your prime nook real estate, or bent-touched panic rooms, while the Folkmeisters and the people they tend to are left in the open."

Everard looked around for anyone he could question about Loretta's location. He knew Mr. President and Minnie, obviously. Lucy he'd met. And Fiametta Vine, who looked exhausted. Meredith, the Minuteman who'd saved him from Undone Duncan, leaned against a far wall. And then a dozen strangers sat at the table or stood around it.

Where was Bill Bill? Or Brian?

"The lure will pull both the Jersey Devil and the Mothman away from the city," said Mr. President. "Bermuda designed it himself."

Bermuda wasn't there either.

Everard touched the flintlock he still had tucked in his waistband, made sure no one was watching him. Everyone he knew well enough to trust was missing.

"At least ask the Hunters to stand guard," said Lucy.

"They're quite occupied with the Boogeyman," said Mr. President.

Meredith spoke up. "Has Bermuda ever built anything like this before? How can you be sure it'll be stronger than the Perforated Woman's lures?"

"It distorts hers," said Mr. President. "So it doesn't have to be stronger."

"Why the risk?" Meredith pressed on. "Why don't you dismantle the machines luring them here?"

"That's a delicate political issue," said Mr. President.

"What he means," said Lucy, "is he'd rather put the poor folk in danger than take a chance that Inc makes a fool of the Burgesses."

Fiametta Vine slowly stood. She yawned. "I can't imagine Mr. President would purposely put anyone in danger."

Everard texted Brian. Where'd you go? Have you seen Loretta?

"Madam Rector is right," said Mr. President. "The booms are disconcerting but ultimately harmless. And Bermuda's lure will keep away the creatures' battle."

"Harmless?" Everard said before he could stop himself. "They about rip you apart when they're strong enough."

"Thank you, Mr. Harrison," said Mr. President, "but it's up to the more experienced people what to do about this crisis."

"The booms aren't just luring the creatures here," said Everard. "They're pushing people away. Haven't you noticed the city is half empty? And if you don't give in to the urge to flee, it boils you from the inside out. I saw it happen with my own eyes. Almost felt it happen to me. I thought Loretta reported all this to you."

A dozen disgusted gazes met Everard's. Like your insides boiling was that different from an extra leg growing out of your lower back. Maybe Lucy had a point about a disconnect between the Periphery leaders and the people they claimed to lead.

"Loretta has reported everything," said Mr. President. "But your sources are unreliable, and Loretta is hardly the only eyes and ears we have. The booms are harmless."

"My sources? Four of us watched it happen. Ask Bermuda! Ask Brian!"

"That remains one reported instance. The Perforated Woman is perfectly capable of deceiving multiple people at once."

"Where's Bill Bill? I want to hear him say that."

"The Burgesses don't answer to you," said Minnie.

"Bill Bill is with General Logan and the Continental Regulars, constructing the lure outside the city."

"Bullshit," said Everard. "He was here twenty minutes ago."

"He's on his way there," said Mr. President, annoyed. "We have it under control."

"And you all trust him?" Everard asked the room.

He got reluctant acquiescence in return.

"What would he gain by lying?" asked Fiametta Vine. "We know he wants to maintain the Burgesses' political power. If he let the people die, who would he have power over?"

"I'm not accusing him of purposely wanting to kill people," said Everard. "I'm accusing him of letting his arrogance blind him so he makes a stupid decision."

"That's enough," said Minnie.

Everard's phone buzzed with Brian's reply. Loretta grabbed me. We're in Bermuda's workshop. Idk where Bill Bill is. Get down here.

Everard stared hard at Minnie, then Mr. President, then the room full of out-of-touch leaders. "You're all going to cross your fingers and hope this goes away, aren't you? If Loretta fails, you all deserve what happens to you."

"Loretta's contract has been completed and paid for," said Mr. President.

Everard walked out.

A few dozen civilians had invaded the main foyer. Not just Burgesses, but all sorts of Periphery denizens. Families huddled in corners, while stressed Burgesses set up cots and handed out blankets. Everard pulled aside someone carrying a water cooler. "What is all this?"

"They're hunkering down until this blows over," he grunted. "Some of the topside Denizens felt safer here."

"So which is it?" asked Everard. "Are the booms dangerous or not?"

"I just do what I'm told."

"You keep telling yourself that when your guts start boiling."

The Burgess ignored Everard to deliver the water cooler.

Everard stepped through the small crowd. A middle-aged couple sat with their arms around each other, listening to an elderly woman play the guitar to keep a circle of children entertained.

This was ridiculous. He'd always heard power corrupted, but he didn't realize it also made you dumb as a brick. Although, Mr. President didn't seem dumb. Everard didn't like it.

He headed down to Bermuda's workshop.

In the stairwell, Everard's phone rang. It was Bowman's number.

After a flash of fear that this had something to do with Abby and Liz not picking up, Everard answered. "It's too early to gloat, you scrawny fuck."

"I warned you what would happen if you didn't leave this alone."

Everard forced himself to stay belligerent. He didn't even know what Bowman was threatening him with yet. "Was everyone in the Periphery dropped on their head as a child? I want to go home. If you and your carpet-face henchmen would leave me alone, I'd have gotten out of your hair."

"I know your secrets, Everard Harrison."

Everard leaned against the stairwell. "I swear to god, if you-"

"Secrets you'd prefer the government not know."

Okay. Not Abby or Liz. He exhaled. "Yeah, you mentioned that."

"But you're still trying to convince everyone that an extra lure isn't enough."

"How'd you know about that?"

"The Burgesses aren't the only ones who pay highly for information."

Everard had no idea who in that room Inc had on their payroll. His best guess would be Mr. President, based on his terrible plan, but that didn't make any sense.

"I've got my contact at the FBI on the other line," said Bowman. "And he's very interested in someone who's been operating a business and conducting his finances under a false identity. That's felony fraud."

"But if I come let your nauseating God possess me, you'll sweep it under the rug? No thanks."

"Becoming a host offers its own rewards," said Bowman. "I'll tell my contact I was mistaken; all you have to do is walk away. Discourage the others from pursuing it if you can, but just walk away, and Uncle Sam will be none the wiser."

"And you think then they'll let you join the CEO?" asked Everard.

"You don't know you're talking about!" said Bowman through audibly gritted teeth.

"I know I'd never spend a decade kissing ass for a chance at a promotion," said Everard. "Here's what you can tell your FBI friend. Find a pen, I want this to be word for word: fuck you."

"Keep acting like this and you're going to get yourself killed."

"You keep trying, and yet I'm still alive. I've already made your fellow bluebloods start to doubt you. Shouldn't take long for that video to make the rounds and turn the regular schmucks against you, too. So you already lost your political standing to try to make me one of you. Does the CEO want a rebellist that bad that he'd sacrifice your entire organization? Because that's what I'm going to make you pay if you keep coming after me. I walked away from the Ailuromancer. I'm not helpless anymore."

Everard's heart raced. Bowman had to know he was bluffing.

Silence on the other end.

"Oh, I get it." Everard continued down the stairs. "The CEO is willing to sacrifice it all."

"Your abilities mixed with the CEO's would make it easy to rebuild."

"You don't believe that. You're still just the loyal lapdog. Tell the CEO I'm tearing down his plans to kill the Burgesses, and then I'm coming for him."

Everard ended the call and walked into Bermuda's hall.

Loretta stood at the doorway to his workshop. "You're threatening other reality benters now?"

Everard shrugged. "I just want to be left alone."

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Everard stepped over bloodstains from the fight with the Lynch Mobbers. Bermuda fussed about something inside his workshop. Loretta motioned for Everard to follow her inside.

"Hold on," said Everard. "You've still got your magic security system protecting my friends, right?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Neither are answering their phones."

"If either of them were in danger, I'd feel it. And for your friend in the city, Shadow's cats are keeping on eye on her. They haven't reported anything, but I can ask for an update."

"Do that," said Everard.

Loretta tapped at her phone. They went inside the workshop.

Bermuda frantically searched his shelves, pushing aside weapons, cookware, and old tools, stirring up clouds of dust in the small museum.

All the scraping and clanking made a nice harmony with the music Brian had playing—a guy on a guitar singing a grating falsetto.

"Does anyone see a silver film canister. It's got holes around the top." Bermuda spotted Everard. "I'm surprised every time I see you're still alive. How's my pistol?"

"Not a scratch." Everard pulled the flintlock from the back of his waistband. "Why weren't you guys upstairs?"

"We left once we heard Mr. President's plan," said Loretta.

"Bah," spat Bermuda, "that old man accuses Bill Bill of being senile, and he thinks propping up a little lure outside the city will work. I threw something together, but I guarantee you the Perforated Woman has been working on her lures for at least a year."

"Will it work?" asked Everard.

Bermuda opened a crate, looked inside, then closed it. "I told him I couldn't promise anything. Especially if he wouldn't let me set it up myself."

"Why wouldn't he let you?" asked Loretta.

"Damned if I know. He said he needed me here to help with all the civilians. He said Bill Bill and the Regulars would take care of it. But I'm still going, obviously."

"When's the last time anyone saw Bill Bill?" asked Everard.

"With you before you met Ryker," said Brian. "Why?"

"He said he'd be at the meeting, but when I got there Mr. President said Bill Bill is out building this second lure with the Regulars."

Bermuda yanked open a drawer, dug through screws, batteries, and other junk.

"Plans change," said Loretta. "Bill Bill respects Mr. President."

"Do you?" asked Everard. "Because this plan is almost purposely dumb."

"I trust Mr. President to pay my invoices. And to stay true to the Founding Fathers' vision, which didn't include betraying them to Inc."

"Maybe. Something's still not right. Did I tell you Minnie came running to my room this morning?"

"No."

Everard told them about how she'd acted frantic until she got on her jacket and then her demeanor changed. Telling the story, something new occurred to him. "Inc has control of her. That's why she shifted so suddenly. I bet you anything she's the one feeding this plan to Mr. President."

"No," said Loretta. "Stop making assumptions; you don't know enough about the Periphery yet. Inc transfers their consciousnesses into their own suits. It requires some kind of personal connection with the garment. That's why it's such a big deal to get promoted and join the CEO."

Bermuda dumped out a wooden crate filled with shoeboxes. "If Inc was controlling Minnie, they would have needed an inductee who had a personal connection with colonial attire."

"Oh," said Everard. "Then I'm back to my original idea of Mr. President going of the deep end. Bowman just called me. He knew what was going on in Mr. President's meeting."

"You and Bowman talk?" asked Brian. The song changed to whiny folk music with a buzzing keyboard melody.

"He calls every once in a while to threaten me," said Everard.

"You know you can block numbers, right?" said Brian.

"That's not the point," said Everard.

"The Hall of Burgesses should be invisible to any sort of bent-touched eavesdropping," said Loretta.

"It is." Bermuda dragged a shelf away from the wall to reveal a safe. "I installed the countermeasures myself."

"Bowman knew Mr. President's plan," said Everard. "So if Inc wasn't listening in, that means-"

Bermuda finished his thought. "Inc had a contact at the meeting." He turned the dial of the safe.

"And why don't you guys think it was Mr. President or Minnie."

"We already explained why," said Loretta. "I can vouch for most of the faction leaders. Unless Inc got to them recently."

"I don't know," said Bermuda, "but I know who Mr. President will blame. I've spent years building relations with the city factions—this is exactly what that old man needs to blame Capitol Bohemia and the NoGoes once he finds out."

"Assuming he admits it's happening," said Everard. "You should have seen him in there. He's entirely in denial."

"I saw it," said Loretta. "That's why we're here."

"Still going after the converter?" asked Everard.

"I think that's our best bet."

"And you?" Everard said to Bermuda. "You're okay going behind your president's back?"

"My loyalty is to the Burgesses." Bermuda opened the safe with a click.

"I'm still in," said Brian. "You haven't got your bent down yet."

"Good. I could use your help," said Loretta. "All three of you."

"Really?" asked Brian. "I thought you didn't want sidekicks."

"It's not long term. There's just too many moving pieces here. Howser called me—the Hunters are having some issues with their equipment. Apparently trapping the Boogeyman is harder than they thought. And with Ryker still making a move on that explorer outpost, well, my point is, I don't know at what point I might have to take off to put out another fire."

"So what you're saying is..." said Everard, forcing Loretta to finish his sentence.

"I need your help."

"You actually want to stay?" asked Brian.

"Hell no," said Everard. "But I keep kicking the wasp nest, and they keep coming after me. Maybe stomping on it will help."

"Alright then," said Loretta. "Here's the plan."

"We break shit," said Everard. "Right?"

"Yes, but I don't want to go in blind."

"What about Shadow's cats?" asked Everard.

"I know there's more than ten people guarding it. They're not real great for details."

"Found it," said Bermuda. He pulled a steel film canister from a cardboard box.

"What is it?" asked Everard.

Bermuda popped off the cap, revealing an orange flame dancing on a candle. "It's the Great Chicago Fire."

Everard peered down at the flame. "My history teacher made it sound bigger."

Brian stepped close and Bermuda jerked it away.

"This is what's left. It'll get bigger quick if it catches on anything. It's impossible to extinguish." Bermuda put the cap back on. "They didn't put out the Chicago fire; they contained it and it ran out of houses to burn. There's a lot of power created by something like that. Didn't take much for me to make it useful."

"How is it still burning?" asked Everard. "How did you even get this?"

"The same way I have the pistol that fired the shot heard round the world," said Bermuda. "I find things. And then I make them useful."

"How is this useful?" asked Everard.

Bermuda handed the canister to Loretta. "The CEO is a reality benter. Chances are, he'll try to tweak reality to stop us from destroying the converter. This fire can't be extinguished."

"Ah," said Everard. "This is our unstoppable force to bash apart his immovable object."

Loretta held the canister up to inspect it. "What happens if I accidentally touch it to myself?"

"Sounds like you'll accidentally burn to death," said Brian.

"That's more or less accurate," said Bermuda.

"I'll be careful." Loretta tucked the canister in her pocket. "Still doesn't solve the problem of going in blind."

"I know where we could get some insider intel," said Everard. "We left it in the trunk."

"The rogue CEO," said Loretta.

"Would he know anything?" asked Brian. "I thought he was some sort of outcast."

"He'll know standard operating procedures," said Loretta. "That's something."

Bermuda's phone rang. "It's Bill Bill." He answered it.

"Where is he?" asked Everard.

"Hello? Can you hear me? Bill Bill, you're breaking up. What's not enough? You there? Lost him." Bermuda squinted at his phone. "I've got signal. Problem was on his end."

"Why wouldn't there be service at the new lure?" asked Brian.

"Maybe he was never there," said Everard.

"Why would Mr. President lie?" asked Loretta.

"Why wouldn't he lie," said Everard.

"Here's what we're going to do," said Loretta. "Everard's right—something's not right with Mr. President. Bermuda, I'll go with you to check out this lure. You make sure they're building it the way you said, and I'll see if I can get some straight answers out of Bill Bill."

"Got it." Bermuda went to the back room.

"You two," said Loretta, "talk to the rogue CEO and find out everything you can about the converter's defenses."

"Will do," said Brian.

"We can handle that," said Everard.

Bermuda came back in the room wearing a kevlar vest and carrying a rifle.

"What historical figure did that belong to?" asked Everard.

"I bought it off a contractor who worked in Iraq," said Bermuda. "But it's just a regular .416 Barrett."

Loretta turned to Everard and Brian. "Stay in touch. Let's take it out within the hour."

She and Bermuda hurried out the door.

Brian picked up his speaker. "Shall we?"

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Everard and Brian jogged down the steps of the Capitol building. In the hour Everard had been inside, the cloud-filled sky went from a pale gray to a dark gray. A metallic cinnamon smell hung thick in the air. The Saturday tourist traffic was almost nonexistent, which just didn't happen in August.

Out of Brian's speaker played a mellow synth pop song with the singer repeating every phrase over and over.

"What do you think?" asked Brian.

"I'm not sure," said Everard. "We'll have to figure out which of us puts on the suit and how to restrain him."

"I mean about the song," said Brian.

"Oh. It's fine, I guess."

"That's all?" Brian stopped in the middle of a crosswalk. "No other comments?"

"We've got bigger things to deal with. What's going on?"

"You don't find it annoying?"

"This conversation is kinda annoying." Everard walked to the sidewalk, but Brian stayed where he was.

"Say the music is annoying."

"I don't mind your music."

"Tell me you hate it and I have awful taste."

"I don't-"

"Say it!"

"What is wrong with you?"

"She hated my music. Acted like I wasn't a real dance mage because I didn't use her ballerina shit."

"Who?" As soon as he said it, he felt like an ass. In all the chaos about stopping the booms and sticking it to Inc, Everard had neglected Brian's grief.

The young hipster, naked without his layers of irony, broke down. "I keep expecting Renae to tell me to switch the song, and then I'll make some jab at her boring music, and laugh when she rolls her eyes."

Everard shepherded Brian onto the sidewalk. He kept his arm around the kid's shoulders. "I'm sorry" was all he could think to say.

"Everything's so wrong. Everything I do is missing something, because Renae's not there to tell me I'm an idiot." Brian looked at him through teary eyes. "What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know." This was entirely out of Everard's league.

"If she were still here, she'd help Loretta. She'd do a better job than I've been doing. Or at least, she'd tell me she was doing a better job." Brian pulled away from Everard and forced a short laugh. "Let's get this done."

Everard followed him to the car, unsure whether he should let it go for now, or push Brian through it.

Brian popped the trunk. The suit lay crumpled between a toolbox and a 24-pack of bottled water.

"I'll put it on," Everard forced himself to say. "You'll have an easier time stopping him from running off with my body."

"No," said Brian, "he showed up to talk to you. We want information fast, right? You talk to him. I'll put it on."

Before Everard could respond, Brian slipped his arm into the jacket. He wiggled it around. "I thought it happened immediately."

"Wait," said Everard. "We need to restrain you first."

Brian picked up the undershirt. His posture went from relaxed to ramrod straight as he slipped the large white shirt over his own indie band t-shirt.

Everard frantically looked for a way to secure his friend—a rope or something—but then he saw his expression and knew it was too late. Brian's mouth adopted a slight smirk, lips upturned on the right side.

"It's not always a suit," said Everard. He grabbed Brian's speaker, linked it to his own phone, and brought up a YouTube video of television static. He hoped the white noise would drown out any chance of music from passing cars. He didn't want the rogue CEO using Brian's bent to take control of the situation.

Brian reached for the suit jacket. Everard drew the flintlock.

"You're not going to use that," said Brian over the static. It was his voice, but the affectation of a corporate ladder climber. The kind of guy who's been combing a perfect part into his hair since his tenth birthday. "You don't want to hurt your friend."

"I'd rather hurt him than let you run away with his body. If you can talk, you're dressed enough."

The rogue CEO looked down at himself. Baggy undershirt over skinny jeans. "I look homeless."

"Tough. Now here's what's going to happen: you're going to tell me all about your friends' converter and how they're defending it, and then I'm taking you off Brian, and throwing you right back in the trunk."

"You're a terrible negotiator," said the rogue CEO. "What do I get out of the situation?"

"I don't throw you in an incinerator," said Everard.

"No, no, no. You're not negotiating from a position of power. I have your friend. You need to be figuring out what I want that you can offer. Otherwise I'll take him and be on my way."

"You're not taking him," said Everard.

Brian's hand reached into the suit jacket and pulled out a lighter. A slight twinge of panic flared and then died in Everard's gut. He should have checked for that, but it was hardly a threat.

"I'm not letting you light that," said Everard. "I'm a rebellist, remember?"

The rogue CEO clenched Brian's jaw.

"Even if I weren't, Brian is a little dude. And do you even have any cash on you?"

"You're a rebellist?" asked the rogue CEO.

"Yeah, sort of," said Everard. "You don't talk to the other CEO? CEOs?"

"I am the CEO," he spat. "No, I haven't spoken with them since their hostile takeover. If you would listen to me for thirty seconds, I'd have told you. If you want to interfere with whatever idiotic scheme they've concocted, I'd be thrilled to help."

Everard wished he knew enough about Inc to judge whether he was lying. "You'd willingly turn on them?"

"I built this company," he said. "I turned Inc from a useless faction into a the biggest power in the D.C. Periphery."

Now probably wasn't the time to mention that Everard had spent the day tearing down that power. "I know some old men in older clothes who'd disagree."

"And they might be right, since those morons tossed me out and into this suit."

"Why would you want back into a suit with a bunch of other guys?"

"The Bloat rewards those in charge. And believe me when I say that I don't intend for that 'bunch of other guys' to be in there with me for long."

"So tell me about Inc's defenses for the converter, and I'll stop their plan and embarrass the current CEO."

"I don't know their defenses. I don't even know what a converter is. My background is in risk management."

"Even better. They've got a big machine that they know Loretta Rodriguez is going to try to destroy. How do they prepare for that risk?"

"What's the machine do?"

Everard explained as much as he understood, including the multiple machines around the city, and their effect on people who couldn't get away.

"Why would my usurpers want to kill the Burgesses?"

"I don't know," said Everard. "Aren't you guys trying to take over the Periphery?"

"I wasn't," said the rogue CEO. "At least not violently."

"Right, I'm sure your motives were pure," said Everard. "Tell me how they'll be defending the converter."

"And then I go back in the trunk. I'm not seeing the benefit to me."

"The benefit is I don't kill you. You're a parasite. I'm not letting you keep anyone's body."

"Here's my counteroffer," said the rogue CEO. "I'll tell you how to get through their defenses, and then I'll borrow this body." He rolled Brian's head around his neck. "I love how flexible it is."

"I already told you," started Everard, and then a mountainous weight fell on his shoulders. He collapsed, some invisible force pushing every inch of his body against the pavement, like gravity had exploded. He struggled to breathe.

"I tossed aside my body for the Bloat," said the rogue CEO. "After decades of a small army of personal trainers, dietitians, and physicians keeping me in pristine health—much higher than anyone else in my organization. I would have lived to a hundred and ten, but I tossed it aside at forty-eight. That's so much more waste than a few dollars. I don't need to burn cash anymore."

Everard tried to lift himself up, but it was like doing a pushup with a truck on top of him.

"But don't worry, I'm a man of my word."

Everard grabbed at the idea of the increased gravity, tried to deny it. The mental mist returned in full force. He couldn't force his will through.

The rogue CEO dressed as he spoke. "Now that they're expecting the attack, each machine will have two or three cashburners defending it, along with whomever they've hired. The cashburners will be running the show. So expect their tactics, not those of their lackeys. Also, my inept replacements will have budgeted the same figure for each aspect of the defense. Monitoring is most expensive, which means at best they'll have a single watcher. It should be easy to sneak up on them."

Fueled by anger over seeing Brian speak like a corporate prick, Everard stabbed at the mental mist. Useless.

The rogue CEO sat on the car's bumper to put on the black leather shoes. "Now if you wouldn't mind distracting my employees, I'm going to go have a word with my former colleagues about their current vision for the city."

The extra gravity faded as Brian's body got into the car and drove away. Everard strained to stand up. He tried to deny the car's engine, but couldn't hold the idea clearly in his head. His whole body ached.

Another boom shook the city.

Everard lay panting on the sidewalk until he had enough strength to call Loretta to tell her the information he'd learned, and the price he'd paid for it.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Staggering back to the Capitol, Everard held his phone to his ear, waiting for Loretta to answer. The clouds were roiling now, not swirling but crashing into each other, forming a front that stretched off into either horizon.

Loretta picked up, and Everard stumbled over his words telling her what happened. "We have to go after him. Are you there?"

"I'm here."

"Did you hear what I said? The rogue CEO has Brian." Everard went up the Capitol steps and to the hidden door to the side.

"I heard you."

"Say something!"

"Where are you?"

"Heading back inside."

"Don't."

"Don't what?" Everard stepped into the Hall of Burgesses foyer.

"Don't go inside. Turn around and start walking. I'm on my way to pick you up right now."

Everard looked around at the refugees in the foyer. A Bluecoat noticed Everard, motioned to his companion, and both men made their way through the refugees toward Everard.

"Ah shit," said Everard. "The rogue CEO wasn't in the suit. He was in the undershirt."

"Are you sure?" asked Loretta.

The Bluecoats picked up the pace. Everard calmly went back through the door. As soon as it closed behind him, he sprinted down the stairs and around the side of the Capitol.

"Positive. I think Minnie's been taken over."

"I think you're right. I was wrong about Inc's suits. You're breathing heavy, where are you now?"

"Running away from Bluecoats who are probably following Minnie's orders. What happened at the lure?"

"They're dead," said Loretta.

"Who?" Everard.

"The Regulars. The ones Mr. President sent to build the lure."

"What was it? Inc? Another gang?" Everard looked over his shoulder. "Why am I running from Bluecoats over here?"

"I don't know who killed them. Someone lined them up and executed them with a round to the back of the head."

"Why would they let that happen?"

"They wouldn't. General Logan's son was there. He's as belligerent as you."

"Someone held them there," realized Everard.

"Probably the CEO himself," said Loretta. "They knew exactly where to find Mr. President's lure. I can't believe I missed that Minnie was taken."

"I'll gloat about it later. Did you find Bill Bill?"

"No. I'm coming your way now. We have to take out the converter as fast as possible. Bermuda's trying to get the lure working, but the whole thing's been hijacked. Keep walking down Constitution, and I'll find you."

She ended the call.

Everard kept his head down and his hand on the flintlock's grip. As the clouds roiled overhead, Everard thought of the rogue CEO holding him down, and of Bill Bill and Mr. President stopping the Lynch Mobbers from standing up. Plenty of ways to hold someone still while you shot them in the back of the head. He didn't know if Minnie was the only one he couldn't trust.

Ten minutes later, Loretta pulled up next to him in a Range Rover. Everard jumped in.

Loretta floored it. "The converter is at Hains Point in East Potomac Park. That's open ground. No buildings or alleyways to ambush us from. What did you learn about their defenses?"

"I learned that parasite took Brian!"

"One disaster at a time," said Loretta. "We'll get him back after we destroy the converter."

"Fine." Everard told her what he'd found out.

"It'll be tough to sneak up on a flat island. But the cashburners being in charge is good. Their tactics show a stupid devotion to the Bloat. Charge straight ahead, attack with more force than necessary, and waste your resources while doing so. They'll throw their lackeys at us full force. We carve through the grunts, then take out the cashburners."

"If you say so."

"Is that how we're going to do this? Whatever I say goes?"

"I don't know." He'd tried going against what she said at the Ailuromancer's and almost gotten himself killed. "I'm armed. I'll focus on shooting them instead of denying anything."

"If we're going to stop this disaster, you'll need more than that flintlock."

"I guess we'll jump off that bridge when we come to it," said Everard. "Or would you rather give me orders on how to cast off your authority? Because that's a little paradox you're cooking up."

"Don't give up is all I'm saying."

"Well now I have to give up," said Everard.

"Doesn't work like that."

"I know, I was kidding."

"Levity is an odd reaction to the situation."

"Better than spending your whole life feeling sorry for yourself."

"Stop talking," said Loretta.

"You know that's not happening."

They turned down 14th, then cut over to Ohio Drive, which crossed over onto the artificial island made for East Potomac Park. The low, grassy island was dominated by a fenced off golf course. A one-way road circled the island, around a six-foot chain link fence which kept undesirables away from golfers.

Hains Point was at the southern tip of the island. Loretta parked by the Jefferson Memorial on the northern end. She opened the trunk and pulled out a metal case. From inside, she pulled out a short barreled automatic rifle and hooked a strap over her shoulder. She slid several clips into her belt.

"The plan is to hit them head on, and hit them hard. You head straight down this road. Keep their attention focused on you. Then I'll flank them from the east."

"I'm not doing that again," said Everard, but Loretta had already vanished.

He'd trusted her on the highway and it'd almost killed him. His bent hadn't worked any better, either. Blindly following authority—even an authority he trusted—didn't work. But neither did doing things his own way. At the Ailuromancer's house, he'd been able to deny larger things, but still inconsistently.

Everard drew the flintlock and started jogging toward Hains Point, down the southwest edge of the island. He liked Loretta's plan of her attacking when their backs were turned, so he'd still make sure that idea got realized. But he'd get there in his own way.

The road was empty, and the footpath equally so. Low, thin cherry trees, already blossomed and harvested, obstructed his view of his target. But there weren't enough of them to stay hidden as he drew close.

On a sunny day, the island was pretty, if often littered with garbage. But with the thick clouds overhead, and the heavy wind lifting that garbage into the air, it wasn't exactly welcoming.

Which made what Everard had to do even less appealing.

Before Hains Point came into view, Everard hopped over the railing, into the Potomac. His ankles sunk into the silt, and muddy water splashed up his chest, staining his shirt. Everyone knew the river was disgusting, and no empty promises of improved water quality would change that.

Keeping the pistol above water and his head below the walkway, Everard pushed as quickly as he could through the murk. As he neared Hains Point, the air buzzed with power. It rolled off the island in slow pulses, like waves breaking over a sandbar at low tide.

Everard peeked over the walkway to see the strangest satellite dish he'd ever seen. A dish of arms reached out from a single point, like a skeletal hand with fingers all around. They looked to be made of bone, but from something much larger than a person, as it was thirty feet across. Instead of a solid plating between each finger, there was gray string woven in circles all around.

Next to the string-and-bone satellite dish was a machine like like the one that'd killed Santa Muerte, only three times the size. Two metal drums were stacked on each other, each much larger than the fifty-gallon drums he'd seen earlier. A tangled mess of wires and tubes ran in and out of the barrels, with several connecting it to the satellite dish.

At least twenty reskinned were holed up behind a makeshift, u-shaped bulwark of SUVs, benches, trash cans, and dirt.

Three cashburners stood back from the reskinned, looking disgusted by the menagerie of skins before them. One yelled at the other two.

"No time like the present," Everard mumbled to himself.

He took careful aim and fired at the yelling cashburner. The pistol bucked with the muffled roar. The beam of sonic force missed, but it caught everyone's attention.

Gunfire exploded from behind the bulwark as the cashburners leapt for cover. Everard followed their lead and ducked back down. He dashed ten feet to the side, popped back up, and hit a reskinned in the chest.

He denied their weapons were loaded. The mental mist parted like the Red Sea. Everard felt a consistent power thrumming inside him. "Whoa."

With the same senses that let him feel the mist, he felt another force nearby, lurking outside the thick fog that pushed against his bent. That was new.

The gunfire stopped. Everard pulled himself up and over the railing.

Another burst of gunfire and Everard dropped to his chest.

Loretta walked from the opposite side toward the bulwark, assault rifle at her shoulder, muzzle flashing with the roar of each shot. The cashburners barked orders.

The reskinned brought up crossbows and knives. Everard denied the tension in the crossbow strings, but a flurry of thrown knives darted toward Loretta. She effortlessly dodged them and returned fire.

This time, the muzzle didn't flash. Instead, a quick yellow flash of fire burst from a slat of a park bench to rip through a reskinned's chest. She pulled the trigger again, and the round exploded out of a tree trunk to hit another reskinned behind cover.

Everard jumped to his feet and fired the pistol, approaching while Loretta had their attention.

Two of the cashburners broke off to come after him, while the reskinned tossed aside their guns and charged Loretta.

Everard fired at the approaching suits, the faraway sound of the sonic blast almost drowned out by Loretta's gunfire. The first suit burned a bill and an eight foot wall of earth burst up between them, stopping Everard's attack.

Everard denied the integrity of the wall, and it crumbled into a low dirt pile. Only one suit waited behind it. He pointed with a sneer, and a hundred knife blades appeared on a gust of wind, headed for Everard's chest.

He dove out of the way, denied the knives as they passed. They winked out of existence, creating a series of tiny pops as the air filled where they'd been.

He still felt the presence watching him as he used his bent.

The second suit suddenly stood over Everard, stomping down at his chest. With nothing flashy, Everard figured the more-than-needed power was all in the strength of the blow. He rolled out of the way. The man's leather shoe pressed six inches down into the solid earth, but his knee popped from the force.

Leaping to his feet, Everard shot the first suit square in the chest before he could ready another flock of knives. The blades fell to the ground around the man who'd brought them into this reality, dead alongside him.

The suit with the busted knee screamed obscenities. He launched attack after attack at Everard—spinning saw blades, a waterfall of Molotov cocktails, a semi careening over the grass to flatten him—but Everard denied them all. Each attack was weaker than the one before, until the cashburner had exhausted his power. Everard snatched the lighter out of his hand, then shot him in his other leg.

"You get to watch me tear apart your plans," he said.

Loretta had reached the bulwark, leaving a trail of reskinned bodies. The five who were skilled enough to still be standing came at her with chains and baseball bats. She ducked a homerun swing, reached out to let a chain wrap around her forearm, then yanked it out of the reskinned's hands.

Running to join the fray, Everard tried to deny the reskinneds' balance.

The Perforated Woman stepped in front of him, emerging from some hidden nook. Everard crashed into her, and they went tumbling to the soft earth. He landed on his back and jumped to his feet. The fall had knocked the flintlock out of his hands. It now sat in the grass behind the Perforated Woman, who wiped mud off her chin.

The swarm of holes leapt from her face to the back of her hand, then up her arm.

Everard looked straight into her eyes, avoiding looking anywhere on her skin. His stomach twinged with disgust and fear.

The holes swam over her eyes.

Everard took a step back, toward the machine. He focused on the pistol behind her, blurring her in his vision. He needed to lead her to the side, so he could dash in and grab the pistol. He stepped to the right, preparing to dash past her.

She moved with him.

Everard denied her balance.

She stumbled, and the perforations multiplied, burst out to cover her face, her neck, her chest, and then retracted back down into their palm-sized domain. She righted herself to continue her pursuit.

Fuck this. He'd lead her away so Loretta could destroy the converter. Everard took off back the way he'd come. His foot caught on something and he tripped. He rolled to his back to see a dark swarm moving through the grass.

He focused on the holes in the ground, pushed away terror and revulsion to grasp at similar emotions. Not hatred for the Perforated Woman, or courage against her, but refusal to let her power or his fear of her control his decisions.

No.

He forced his will through the mist, still aware of the watching presence. The Perforated Woman gritted her teeth. The holes on her body flared out, pushing against Everard's will, but he forced his attack forward.

The perforations on the ground closed and disappeared.

She shrieked and ran at him, a knife appearing in her hand.

Everard jumped to his feet to meet her, throwing his shoulder into her gut. He denied her grip on the knife, pushed his will against hers. Her empty hand slammed down on his back.

She hit the ground. The wind blew dust into his eye as he stood over her. She laughed as that dust became a hole, opening to welcome in the humid air and something living that wormed its way into his flesh. The feeling dominated his mind, refused to be ignored. A wildfire of panic swept over him.

He tried to deny the hole. The mental mist closed in. The presence drew closer.

Everard pushed his thoughts to the calmest place he could think of. Kicked back in his recliner, watching baseball, without a care in the world.

A deep breath and he tried again. The mist pushed tight against him, shepherded by the encroaching presence.

The Perforated Woman laughed.

He staggered away from her. Vision through his punctured eye blurred. Gunfire roared in some far away place.

Everard gathered his thoughts again. Not home, not freedom, not privacy. Abby. Four months after they'd met, playfully arguing about furniture styles over Thai food. Spice hung in the air, dug into your throat. She said art nouvau proved that form was function, he said it proved that people confused gaudiness with style, and for the first time in ten years came the thought that maybe waking up alone was getting old.

Reskinned yelled, the wind spattered his face with dust, and the perforation slid aross his pupil, but Everard's mind was controlled.

Despite his terror, he focused on the hole opening in his eye, and on the holes swarming over the Perforated Woman's skin.

He denied them all.

His will punched through the mist, drove it back. The presence on the other side withdrew.

The sensation in his cheek vanished, and the Perforated Woman screamed in pain. She writhed on the grass, clutching at her skin, at the holes snapped shut. She scratched at her neck, her chest, her arm, following the now-invisible movement of whatever gave life to the perforations.

Everard picked up the flintlock, bent over to catch his breath.

The Perforated Woman sneered through her pain, opened her mouth to condemn him but screeched in agony instead. Between her lips, behind her tongue, something slithered and crawled.

Everard aimed the flintlock to her head, debated whether he was considering executing her because she was a danger to the Periphery, or because she terrified him and that infuriated him. As he decided either reason was fine, she rolled over and vanished.

"Dammit." Everard fired at the empty space, punching a shallow hole in the dirt. He kicked around, but she hadn't gone invisible, she'd disappeared.

Despite her escape, he'd beaten her, and the relief and pride was palpable.

Everard headed back toward Loretta, who'd dispatched the final reskinned with two rounds through the forehead.

They converged at the machine. Upon closer inspection, the stack of metal drums looked about three times wider than a 50-gallon drum, and it was at least twenty feet tall. The wires and tubes threaded in and out like a pair of ear buds when he kept them in his pocket too long.

"Bigger than Bermuda said it'd be," said Everard.

"I was noticing that," said Loretta, worry playing on her face. "The increased size should allow the collection of an exponentially higher amount of energy."

"If we could break it, would it matter how much power it converts?" He fired the pistol at the drum. The blast shook the mess of wires, but the metal absorbed the sonic energy with a low internal echo.

"I've seen this thing punch through steel," Everard said. He fired at the base of the satellite with similar results.

Loretta pushed the pistol down. "We should call Bermuda. Something's not right. Can't you feel it?"

"Did you write yourself a 'Spidey-Sense' program?" Everard inspected the satellite and drum, found the bolts that held them together. Like he'd done in the Ailuromancer's home, he held tight to the idea of structural integrity, and denied it.

His will pushed through the mist. The silent observer roared to life. A freight train of opposing energy crashed into him. It had the same flavor and feel of his bent, but was more solid, more precise.

He tried again, willing his denial forward like he had against the Perforated Woman. The retaliation came instantly, each thread of will he forced out of the mist was blown apart with pinpoint accuracy.

"Satisfied?" asked Loretta.

"My bent finally worked," said Everard, eyes still glued to the machines. "I think it was because I worked alongside you, but stuck to my own plans."

"Not quite the same as past rebellists, but it makes sense," said Loretta.

"But something's not right, just like you said."

"Nice to hear you admit that."

"Every time I denied something, I felt something watching me. And now whatever it is, it's stopping me from destroying the machines."

Loretta traced one of the satellite arms with her finger. She tapped the bones and the wire between them. "None of my programs are working, either. It's like this thing is impenetrable. I'm calling Bermuda." She dialed him, put it on speaker phone.

While it rang, Everard said, "It's not just that I can't destroy it. I feel like, if I could get through, it would come apart easy. But someone's stopping me."

"Someone?"

"That's what it feels like."

"It'd take a reality benter to interrupt you like that, before you even effect the world."

"We're back to what I said earlier. Mr. President is involved."

"It might still be the CEO."

Bermuda answered. "No progress yet," he said. "Whoever killed the Regulars made off with half the equipment."

"Or they were never given the right supplies to start with," said Everard. He dug up a few inches of dirt around the base of the satellite dish, found a concrete foundation.

"Bermuda, keep working at that, but I need you to listen," said Loretta. "Something's stopping us from destroying the machines."

"Someone," said Everard.

"More importantly," said Loretta, "the converter has an eighteen foot diameter."

"That can't be right. The cable at the other machine we saw was quarter-inch zinc alloy. No way it can handle the amount of power a converter that size can collect."

"What about that machine?" Everard pointed to the huge barrel and wire setup.

"We've got a bigger version of the machine the Narco Saints were defending," said Loretta. "Looks about twenty-five feet high. The cables between them are as thick as my arm."

"We're not talking a one-to-one increase with size and power. A converter five times the size I was expecting isn't just going to target five times the number of people. We're talking..." Bermuda mumbled numbers to himself. "three quarters of a million."

"Does Inc have beef with the whole city?" asked Everard.

"That's not it," said Loretta. "There's almost six million people in the area."

"Not in the city itself," said Everard. "That's around six hundred thousand, isn't it?"

"As much as I'd like to crush Inc," said Bermuda, "Doesn't make sense why they'd want to take out the whole Periphery, let alone the city. They want to turn everything into a profit generating machine. Can't do that if everyone's dead. Regardless, just because they've got the generator, doesn't mean they have the fuel. Like I said, this break takes a lot of juice."

"The Mothman and Jersey Devil fighting isn't a lot?" asked Loretta.

"It's an insane amount," said Bermuda. "Remember, this break sucks up energy. It'd take a nuclear power plant to banish half a dozen people. Those two creatures fighting—assuming they harness the energy efficiently, which I'll admit the Perforated Woman and the CTO might be genius enough to do—it'll put out enough juice to target a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred. But not six hundred thousand."

A streetlight buzzed on, casting an evening shadow of the generator over Everard. He stepped out of it.

"Any reason they'd make a generator bigger than they planned to use?" asked Loretta.

"Waste of time and money," said Bermuda.

"They're all about waste," said Loretta.

"Hey guys," said Everard. The shadows—and the repeated warnings to stay out of them—flicked the first domino on the chain to understanding. Everard tried to wrap his mind around what he was realizing.

"Wait," said Bermuda. "How big did you say the barrel is?"

"Twenty-five feet high. Maybe twelve across, with the mess of wires sticking out another four feet."

"That's three times as big as - hold on." He hummed as he did equations in his head. "It's bigger than necessary at the same rate as the generator. This isn't about waste. This about a bigger break than we thought."

"Guys," said Everard, more firmly. "Would the whole exponential thing apply to the fuel, too? If there was a third monster fighting for territory, would it add fifty percent more power?"

"It'd go up exponentially," said Bermuda.

Everard pointed at the shadow. "What about the Boogeyman?"

"Oh fuck," breathed Bermuda. "If he joined the fight, there'd be at least enough energy to force out or kill the population of D.C. But the Hunters have the Boogeyman trapped in a warehouse on ninth. He's not going anywhere."

Loretta covered her hand with her mouth.

"Unless the material for the traps was sabotaged," said Everard. "Kind of like how the equipment for the new lure was short."

"Again," said Bermuda, "why would Inc want to kill everyone around?"

"Not everyone," said Everard. "Just the people who live in the city itself. Everyone who doesn't understand that D.C. isn't a place you live, it's where the government comes, legislates, and then leaves, keeping the focus of the power with the states."

"Now you sound like Mr. President," said Bermuda. He exhaled slowly. "The same man who supplied the materials for the Hunters' traps."

"Minnie isn't an Inc spy," realized Loretta. "She's their go-between. Inc must believe Mr. President is betraying his factions. But in reality, he's playing Inc. He's getting them to twist the world back to his gods' vision."

"That sure as hell isn't our gods' vision," said Bermuda.

"It's his interpretation. He's protecting the machines," said Loretta. "What did it feel like, when your denials didn't work?"

"Not like before. Before I couldn't force my will out far enough. This time, something pushed me back. It felt precise."

"It was definitely him," said Loretta. "He doesn't have as much brute force as Bill Bill, but he's got the finesse of a ballet dancer. Although, I never realized he'd go this far."

"I should have," said Bermuda. "He's been getting angrier every year. I thought it was about my play for power within the Burgesses. But apparently it was more than that."

"To the tune of six hundred thousand people." Everard tried to wrap his mind around that devastation. It would include Abby.

"We can use this," said Bermuda. "If the break needs the Boogeyman, we make sure they don't get the Boogeyman."

"Can you find a way to make the traps work, even sabotaged?" asked Loretta.

"I don't know," said Bermuda. "Maybe. More likely I figure out how to make this lure work."

"No, no, that's smart. You stay there. Everard, we'll go help Howser keep the Boogeyman contained."

"What about Mr. President?" asked Everard. "If he can stop us from destroying the machines, can't he stop us from fixing the traps?"

"Shit," said Loretta. "Probably. But he's not omniscient. He can't stop something he doesn't know is happening."

"We need to distract him," said Everard. "Get him focused on something else. One of us goes at him directly. The other helps Howser keep those traps up and running."

"That could work," said Loretta. "Except we don't even know where he is."

"Then we find him," said Everard. "Don't your clients hire you to find people all the time?"

"It's not that simple."

"You can't tell me you don't easily track down the people who threaten your family. I saw what you did to that guy from Inc."

"I said it's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"It takes time. Hours."

"Then what do we do?"

"Figure out where he is," said Loretta. "If he wants to make sure the spell happens, where's he going to put himself?"

"If he can stop us from breaking it without being here, he can be anywhere," said Everard.

"Not anywhere. He knows we suspect him. He'll put himself somewhere away from everyone. Somewhere almost impossible to get to. He's probably been preparing a place like this for months."

Everard wasn't going to be able to help on this one. He didn't know the major locations in the Periphery, let alone where someone might hide.

"It'd be close to a crossover point," said Bermuda. "Or in an intruding nook. He'll want privacy and a great view of the city."

"There's no views of the city," said Everard. "Except the Washington Monument. Wait. Hey, listen. I keep asking about that weird copy of the Monument that floats around behind the real one. No one's given me a straight answer. What is it? Could he be there?"

"What's he talking about?" asked Bermuda.

"The extra Washington Monument." Everard pointed across the river, although the monument wasn't visible through the trees. "It's always just barely in sight, no matter how far around it you walk."

"How long has it been there?" asked Loretta.

"How the hell should I know?" said Everard. "At least since last night."

"That's got to be it," said Bermuda. "Perfect view, unreachable, and it showed up just in time for the fireworks."

"I'd volunteer to go after him," said Everard, "but let's be honest. He's already shutting me down, and you're the more capable one here, anyways."

The thought of taking on the multipresent monster under the bed was somehow less intimidating than facing down a frail old man who worshiped the Founding Fathers, and Everard wasn't stupid enough to think he had a better chance against Mr. President than Loretta did.

Loretta nodded. "Okay. However Mr. President has sabotaged their traps, your bent is the best bet at fixing them. I'll keep his attention away from stopping you."

"Good luck," said Bermuda.

"Watch your back over there," said Loretta. "Whoever killed the Regulars could come back."

"Let them. They'll regret it." Bermuda ended the call.

Loretta swiped at her phone.

"What about your family?" asked Everard. "While you're going after Mr. President, who's watching them?"

"I'm texting Jose. He'll get the kids out of the city. He should be able to quickly enough. What about your lady friend?"

"I'll call her."

Loretta tossed him the keys. "The Hunters are in an abandoned corner store near Lincoln Park, at 14th and Ames. I'll be in touch. If I don't call, it means Mr. President got the better of me. Don't kill yourself trying to stop him. Just get out as many people as you can."

She sprinted away, unnaturally fast.

Everard called Abby, but it went to voicemail again. He left a message, telling her the storm was even worse than the news was saying, and to get out of D.C. quick, but he couldn't think of a way to convince her without sounding crazy, and he eventually just asked her to call him back.

Chapter Forty

INTERLUDE

Cautious, the two ancients circle the low city, each focused on the other.

The apex rushes lightning quick from cloud to treetop, searching for a weak spot in the cowardly, confusing hunter, trying to follow its impossible, erratic movement.

The ostracized god lifts, lowers, safe in its higher path, but straining to match pace with the hubristic bully.

They sense another, chained within the city, its fury thick and ferocious.

Careful of the threat below, the two ancients feint, lunge, test. Searching for weakness, determined not to let the other claim this no man's land.

The apex is first to turn a feint into an attack, twisting its antlers towards the confusing intruder's wings.

The ruler of the blue hills slips through the attack, ends facing the hubristic bully's back, begins its mournful sermon.

Below, among a citizenry cowering under the unexpected storm, the third ancient thrashes against its chains.

Chapter Forty-One

Everard sprinted the mile back to the Range Rover. His sweat added to the muddy water drenching his clothes. He jumped in and headed across the city. Gusts tried to push the truck to one side or another, even within the city.

He tried calling Bill Bill again with no luck. Passing the Mall, he tried to look up at the Washington Monument, at the copy that stayed behind it. If Mr. President was up there, Everard couldn't see him.

A piercing roar resonated through the air, something between a tiger's growl and a screeching hawk.

Everard jumped at the sound. Animalistic fear bubbled up inside him.

A mournful, threatening howl answered, crooked somehow, like an audio recorded in reverse and then played forward.

Riding a gust of wind, a sense of mourning crushed down on Everard. Everything he'd ever lost came rushing to the front of his mind. He knew he could never be with Abby, that Liz would never be happy, that his loose acquaintanceship with Bill Bill was the closet he'd ever have to a real friend.

He let the car cruise to a stop. The wave of depression passed.

Standing on the sidewalk, a police officer wiped away tears, looked around confused, then continued his patrol.

Everard stuck his head out the window to look at the sky. Dull lightning flashed, along with low thunder. Movement in the clouds.

The Jersey Devil and the Mothman had arrived.

Everard floored it, shooting toward Lincoln Park. The streets were almost as barren as the beltway. People stepped onto their stoops to stare at the sky, but most stayed huddled inside, away from the wind.

He arrived at the abandoned shop, hopped out of the car.

His phone buzzed. He checked it, hoping to see that Loretta had taken down Mr. President, but instead saw an emergency broadcast warning. Monsters of urban legend clashed overhead, and the city warned about hurricane force winds.

Staying down might protect the people from collateral damage, but if they couldn't stop the booms, hunkering down was signing their own death warrant.

Everard sized up the abandoned shop. It was a one-story brick building, taking up two lots. Its windowed front said it was once a grocery store, but now only plywood kept out the insistent wind.

A pickup and a black van were the only other cars in the small lot.

Another screech came from the clouds above, answered by a mournful dirge.

Everard approached the front door. Along the corner of the building ran a network of minuscule wires and computer chips. He leaned in close to inspect it. This must be how the Hunters were corralling the Boogeyman. He didn't know a thing about electronics. If this was what Mr. President sabotaged, Everard would have a hard time denying it.

He ducked inside. He expected it to be darker than the approaching twilight outside, but the interior of the shop was lit up like high noon. Worklights blazed with high energy bulbs, banishing any hint of a shadow.

All the shelves had been pushed to one corner, creating an open space where the team of Hunters was in full panic mode.

Howser—the barrel chested giant Everard had met in his first meeting with Mr. President—yelled at a man who leaned over a card table, typing furiously on a laptop.

"He's really getting antsy in there," Howser yelled. "That charge better be ready in about thirty seconds."

"I'm working on it," came the two-voiced reply.

As Everard approached, he recognized Jakes, the two-tongued man who'd came after him at the same time as the Perforated Woman. He had a cast around his leg, and a crutch leaned on the table.

Two others stood by a closet door in the back of the room. Thin wires and computer chips lines the door frame. One of the men crouched by the floor, adjusting something with a tiny soldering iron. The other aimed at the door with an automatic rifle lined with its own network of wires and circuitry.

As Everard stepped into the room, he felt a surreal pressure in the air. The air was still, but everything pushed outward from the closet.

Howser noticed Everard. "We're about to blow this murderous fuck to tiny, multipresent pieces. Come to join the fun?"

"I thought I'd drop by," said Everard.

"Loretta couldn't join you?" asked Jakes. "She saved our asses earlier."

"She's saving our asses right now," said Everard. "Mr. President gave you sabotaged materials."

"Bullshit." Jakes didn't look up from his laptop. "The barrier's fine, if it's installed precisely."

The Hunter with the soldering iron spat back over his shoulder, "I've done a million of these. Faulty equipment would explain why this one's giving me trouble."

"Shut up, both of you," growled Howser. "That's a big accusation to make against the most powerful man in the Periphery. You got proof?"

"Your barrier's not working, is it?" said Everard.

"That doesn't prove Mr. President's the one behind it," said Howser.

Jakes turned away from his laptop, his dual voice still oddly harmonic. "It does if the equipment is faulty."

"Is it?" asked Howser.

Jakes looked at the Hunter working on the barrier. "Hub's right. He knows what he's doing. It's not his fault."

An uneasiness oozed through the cheap particle board of the closet door. The armed Hunter stepped closer to Hub, who muttered to himself while he worked on the barrier. Jakes cursed and typed furiously.

"Keep him in there," ordered Howser. The fear in his voice rattled Everard. A man that big shouldn't be afraid of anything.

"Let's just blow it," said Jakes.

"If the barrier's not at a hundred percent, the sudden threat will let him manifest outside of it."

"The wires keep slipping apart from each other," said Hub. "I thought it was all the wild energy in the atmosphere, but maybe the kid's on to something."

"It's not a hunch," said Everard. "We found the machines causing the booms, but Mr. President stopped us from destroying them."

A violent shriek echoed from outside. The closet door creaked.

"Sounds like he wants to join his friends," said Everard.

Howser harrumphed. "He's not as territorial as those other two, but he'll still view their approaching as a challenge. That fight could get a lot more violent."

"And if it does," said Everard, "the booms will have enough power to kill everyone in D.C."

"Why would Mr. President want that?"

"Because he's old and wants things to go back to the good old days. I don't know and it doesn't matter." Everard pointed at the closet. "As long as you recognize that if he gets out, everyone's in a lot of trouble. And that someone's trying to sabotage your whole setup."

A crack appeared in the door.

Hub jumped backwards. "He's right. I don't think this alloy was measured properly."

"You're a rebellist, right?" said Jakes. "Give us a hand."

Everard stepped toward the closet. He denied the crack. His will pushed almost effortlessly through the mist holding him down. The wood knit together.

"Not the door itself, genius," said Jakes. "The barrier."

Everard took the idea of the barrier weakening, tried to deny it. The mist thickened, held his will back. The idea was too conceptual.

"Why would Mr. President turn on the city?" asked Howser. "I've always trusted him."

"Let's focus on stopping it," said Everard. "Then we can talk about how it makes us feel."

The closet door cracked again, larger this time. Everard denied it.

"That's not helping," said Jakes.

"Then tell me how all this shit works," yelled Everard. "I can't deny something I don't understand."

The pressure from the closet shoved outward, sending everyone staggering back a step.

Jakes picked up his crutches to hobble over to the closet. He ran his finger along the network of wires. "A Steineker Current runs through these wires, which are an alloy of copper, silver, and thyme."

"The spice?" asked Everard.

"Yes. Every six inches or so—proportionate to the size of the trap—that current activates this chip, which puts out a barrier of reverse ionization."

"I'm still in the dark."

"Thanks to whatever nook he crawled out of, the Boogeyman can't pass through that barrier.

"And what's going wrong?"

The pressure from the closet swelled outward. The lights flickered.

"The current's not reaching the chips," said Jakes. "Could be the wires aren't the right alloy. Could be the receivers are twisted. Could be some bent-touched interference."

"I can maybe work with that," said Everard.

Cracks reappeared in the door.

"Do it fast," said Howser. "We can't hold him in there much longer."

Everard grabbed onto the idea that the current wasn't reaching all the chips. It still felt too complicated, denying that something wasn't happening. He tried it anyways. His will forced its way into the mist, almost touched the outside.

That precise presence attacked, smashing Everard's attempt back down with exact strikes.

Sharp pain exploded in his head. He grunted and closed his eyes.

"What happened?" Howser had the detonator out, beckoned his men away from the door.

"Mr. President's stopping me."

"How's he doing that?"

"I don't know," said Everard. "But the bigger question is why isn't Loretta distracting him? Howser, you know them both. If she faced him down, would she stand a chance?"

"Maybe," said Howser. "Not if he saw her coming."

"What do we do?" Jakes limped on his crutch away from the closet.

Everard tried again, this time denying that the alloy was incorrect. Mr. President's attack came again, stabbing into Everard's mind. When he opened his eyes, he was on his knees. It awakened the rest of the pain in his body, all the beatings and bruises he'd taken the last two days. "I can't do it."

A dark howl filled the city, pushed its way into the shop. Hate emanated from within the closet.

The door burst into a thousand pieces. Everard shielded his eyes, taking a sliver of wood into the back of his hand. He dropped his arm and looked up.

The black of the small closet loomed over Everard.

Even the bright worklights couldn't pierce it, as if it were a physical curtain.

"Everybody down!" Howser grabbed Everard by his shirt and flung him towards the front door, then clicked the detonator.

The explosion rocked Everard, deafened him. He thought it'd blinded him, until the flashlights clicking on showed it was just that the worklights had gone out.

Howser silently yelled, motioned for his Hunters to withdraw.

Bobbing flashlights moved toward the front door. Everard scrambled to his feet, looked back to see Hub's leg go out from under him, get dragged into a corner. In the second it took for the others to swing their lights around, something had ripped through his body armor and into his chest. He gasped a thick, wet breath.

"Outside," barked Howser, barely audible.

Jakes yanked his laptop free of its cords to limp for the door. A black blur swung down from the ceiling.

Howser swung his ax. An unnaturally lanky body split into two. Violet, lumpy blood splattered across Jakes.

"Keep moving," roared Howser.

The fourth Hunter fired his circuitry lined rifle into the darkness, tracking something Everard couldn't see. Figures rose up out of the shadows around him, blocking him from view. Howser ran for them. They collapsed back into the floor, and the Hunter was gone.

"Get outside!" Howser turned and rushed for the door. Everard scrambled outside. He drew the flintlock as he turned around, aimed at the door. Jakes appeared, then a gray arm wrapped around the two-tongued man's neck and yanked him back inside. Everard dashed back in, pistol raised. Howser crashed into him, and they tumbled into the parking lot.

The door slammed shut.

Howser scrambled to his feet, looked down at what he was holding. It was a hand and a wrist, ripped away from Jakes' body. He flung it at the ground in fury.

The abandoned shop rumbled. Flashes of movement in the shadows, spreading outward from the shop.

Everard ran to his car, turned on the headlights, then stood in their glow.

"He's free," growled Howser. "A year's worth of work, eight good men—eleven, now—and he's free."

Thunder rolled overhead.

"It's worse than that," said Everard. "Mr. President's got all the juice he needs. He's going to kill everyone in the city."

Chapter Forty-Two

Everard tried calling Abby and Liz again. Shadow must have never gotten back to Loretta. He barely heard the electronic voice over the wind in the shop parking lot, but heard clear enough to tell when it went to voicemail.

"Dammit."

Howser still stood in the beams of the headlights, staring at the shop door. His chest rose and fell. "What's your next step?"

Everard didn't know. As much as he wanted to kick Inc in the balls, he was out of his league here. He wanted to go to Abby's house, get her out of the city. Why should he spend another second risking his life for a bunch of people who never bothered to make eye contact when he passed them on the sidewalk. But it was hard to walk away from a house fire when all the firefighters were looking the other way.

"Loretta isn't answering," said Everard.

"You're not thinking of going after Mr. President yourself?"

"What choice do I have?"

"I'll come with you. He helped the Boogeyman murder my crew."

"These three monsters trying to kill each other right now," said Everard, "could you take down any of them?"

"By myself? Maybe the Jersey Devil, if I got a lucky shot in. Not the other two."

"Do they have heartbeats?" asked Everard.

"Gonna try out that rebellist murder magic on them? If the Mothman has a heart, it's some fifth dimension nonsense you couldn't wrap your mind around. The Jersey Devil probably does. Nothing otherworldly about that beast. Just a million-year-old apex predator. The Boogeyman, I couldn't say."

"Let's head to the Washington Monument. You drive."

Everard got into the passenger seat of Howser's truck. Howser got in, switched on the cabin light, and unhooked the strap from a shotgun holster between the seats.

As they drove, Everard tried out his rebellist murder magic. He tried to deny the Jersey Devil's heartbeat, but the restraining mist held his will tight. He didn't know enough about the creature to think about it as a specific idea. He'd seen glimpses of the Boogeyman, so he tried that. This time, his mental energy couldn't even enter the mist, let alone push through it.

If he got a chance to look one of them in the eyes, maybe it could work. He looked out the window at the sky. Unlikely he'd get that chance.

"If you had to kill Mr. President," asked Everard. "How would you do it?"

"I would say from a mile away with a high powered rifle," said Howser. "Except someone tried that during the Machinist Revolts. The bullet hit his temple, and he denied its velocity before it could enter his skull. Mr. President's not Mr. President because he's a rebellist. He's Mr. President because he's the best damn rebellist the world has ever seen."

"What would you say now?" asked Everard.

"I'd convince one of the other reality benters to try. Or maybe all of them."

"We don't have time to get all of them," said Everard. "We've just got me."

The Washington Monuments came into view as they crossed Pennsylvania Avenue. Everard craned his neck to see the hidden copy.

"You come up with a plan, yet?" asked Howser.

"I'm going to walk up and challenge him," said Everard. "I don't know what else to do."

Running wasn't an option anymore. Not just because he hated running, but because he was the last chance for the city.

Howser parked the car on the sidewalk and they both got out.

Leaves, twigs, and trash swirled in the wind. The roads were empty and the sky full. Something impossibly fast and the size of an SUV hit the ground a block away, skidding and tearing a muddy path in the grass, then rocketed back into the sky. Everard caught a glimpse of antlers and bat wings, pursued by a thousand grasping, gray hands.

The power in the air dropped, like it was being sucked away.

"You feel that?" asked Everard.

Another boom roared across the city. The car rattled with the force, and his ears hurt from the volume. That same pull to get out of the city rioted inside him. Everard resisted the implanted impulse, and his chest suddenly felt aflame. He clutched at it, trying to claw the pain out.

The echoing boom subsided, the pain faded.

Howser bent over, hands on his knees.

"I think we're running out of time," said Everard.

They approached the Monuments.

Moth wings darted erratically across the sky. Something crashed down onto the roof of a building. Lithe figures crawled up the walls to meet it, tearing away brick and mortar.

Two people stood at the foot of the Monument—the Minutemen who'd rescued him from Undone Duncan.

"What the hell are you doing here?" asked Meredith. "Where's Loretta?"

"We're trying to stop Mr. President from murdering six hundred thousand people," said Everard. "Loretta headed over here an hour ago. You haven't seen her?"

Meredith shook her head. "We're feeling every one of these people in danger. But something in there is putting out a veritable search light of needing help. Could be her. Can you help us get to it?"

Howser looked to Everard.

"How?" asked Everard. "Deny that it's on the other side?"

"Isn't that what you do?"

"I can try," said Everard. That was way bigger than anything he'd tried yet. Bigger than things he'd failed at.

The white brick tower loomed over him, with its unnatural twin behind it. How had Mr President done this? At first he thought he'd denied that everyone could see it, but it was actually moving away when they tried to walk toward it. Maybe he'd denied that it was fully in this reality. Everard didn't know enough about the Periphery to be sure.

He tried denying that the copy was on the other side of the Monument. His will couldn't pierce the mist.

Another boom shook the city. This time, Everard let it force him away, drifting on the impulse to leave like on a swell in the ocean. But he pushed aside the urge to leave, and pain erupted in his chest again.

It passed.

Howser gritted his teeth. Meredith and Stirling clenched their jaws.

"Can't handle much more of that," said Howser. "Stick to the Monument. Get us in there."

"I can't. We need another strategy."

Meredith scoffed. "Typical for a Burgess. You act like you rule the world but when it comes to actually doing something, you're useless."

"I'm not a Burgess," said Everard.

"You've been running their errands since you showed up. They're the ones funding your training. And you're going to argue you're not with them?"

"You're not helping," said Howser.

"No, she's right," said Everard. "Figuring out my bent, stopping the booms, it's all what the Burgesses wanted me to do. I didn't give a shit about these powers, and I didn't understand why everyone was freaking out about the booms. I just did what Bill Bill said because he promised to help me go back to my normal life. I'm so out of my element in the Periphery that I've been taking their word as fact. And look where that's gotten me."

"That doesn't make sense," said Howser. "You're trying to stop Mr. President, not following his orders."

"But I'm following the Burgesses. Or I was, without thinking about it. I don't know how it works for Bill Bill and Mr. President, but I'm not devoting my life to that cult. I've been acting like a Burgess, but I'm not one, and I'll never be one."

As he solidified that decision, the mental mist thinned.

He tried again. It was a conceptual denial—that the copy was on the opposite side of the Monument—but his newfound strength pushed him through.

In one breath, the copy hid behind the Washington Monument. In the next, it loomed directly over them.

Everard's head spun at the shift in space.

Green tinted smog dropped from the sides of the copy, dissipated.

"Shit," said Meredith, stepping back.

The copy was the same shape and height as the real monument, but made of either a darker brick or a similarly colored brick that was covered in some mix of rust and grime.

It shared a walkway with the original, the concrete circle and ring of American flags extending to look like a dividing cell. It had the small, square structure jutting out from the bottom, where you'd wait in line to go to the top in the original.

The sky behind the copy wavered in bent light.

"It must have been in another nook," said Howser. "You grabbed a little more than just the Monument."

"Or it's the fallout from his bent," said Meredith.

Everard doubled over, catching his breath. He felt like he'd spent all day in the gym. Apparently, bigger denials took more out of you.

The tiny window five hundred feet above didn't reveal any secrets about who was behind it.

"Think he knows we're here?" asked Everard.

"Who?" asked Meredith.

"Mr. President," said Everard. "These booms are going to kill every citizen of D.C. who doesn't leave."

"You mean I'm about to face Mr. President?"

"You don't have to," said Everard. With the power he'd just achieved, he might have a minuscule chance at facing Mr. President. The Minutemen would only get themselves killed.

"Someone needs help up there," Meredith said, "and I'm in a position to lend a hand. So that's what I'm going to do."

"Okay," said Everard, "let's figure out our plan."

"Every second counts," said Meredith.

"She's right." Howser headed for the door. "No sense wasting time."

The grass at Howser's feet shot up, wrapping around his ankles, his thighs, up his chest. He ripped one leg free only for more grass to grab it again. In less than a second, it pulled him to the ground, covering him head to toe.

Bowman stepped outside, adjusting the lapels of his suit.

Bill Bill stepped out behind him.

Chapter Forty-Three

Meredith and Stirling opened fire at Bowman without hesitation. Bowman brought up a wall of cement to stop the bullets.

Howser struggled against his grass restraints. Everard denied them. Howser broke free, only for more grass to cage him.

Everard denied it again. He aimed the flintlock between Bill Bill's eyes. "You fucking asshole! You're in on this?"

Bill Bill tilted his head inquisitively.

"You, of all people, are willing to murder the city to please a couple dead men?"

His elderly neighbor backed away, fear in his expression.

Meredith threw her tomahawk. It burst out into a dozen tomahawks, each zeroing in on Bowman. The suit dodged them all.

With Bowman distracted, Howser broke free to leap at the CFO. Bowman punched Howser square in the chest, the wasteful force knocking the huge man back ten feet.

Everard reached Bill Bill, shoved the pistol into his gut. "Where's Loretta?"

Bill Bill stammered something, stuttering as Everard jabbed him with the barrel.

Everard's elderly neighbor started to cry. "I'm sorry."

"You damn well should be sorry."

"I'm sorry. Sorry sorry sorry," repeated Bill Bill, voice lined with confusion.

A sour smell hit Everard's nostrils. The front of Bill Bill's britches were wet.

"Oh geez." Everard stood Bill Bill up straight by his shoulders. "He undid all his denials on you. Everything keeping your mind intact."

Bill Bill must have challenged Mr. President, and received as a reward the senility life had been trying to give him for years.

Bowman leaped at Stirling, tackling the Minuteman to the ground with the force of a truck.

"Come sit over here." Everard tried to guide Bill Bill off to the side, but he jerked away. "Alright, try to stay out of the way."

Bill Bill wandered away, hugging himself and scratching his arms.

Bowman flung a barrage of razor blades at Meredith. She ducked but caught one across her ear. Blood poured down her neck.

Everard denied Bowman's balance. He stumbled, and Howser punched him in the mouth.

Bowman crumpled, dazed.

Everard turned to face the suit. "What do you think is happening here? You think Mr. President's scaring off all the factions who won't side with you?"

Bowman looked up and another stream of razor blades appeared, fewer than before, to shoot at Everard. He denied their trajectory.

"You're running out of juice. Where's Loretta? Where's Mr. President?"

Bowman flicked his lighter and pulled out a stack of hundreds. He snarled as Everard denied the flame, denied his grip on the lighter. "You can't stop it now. The national factions might as well already be gone."

"What did he tell you?" Everard kicked the lighter out of his reach. "He'd decided to side with a bunch of hedonistic parasites?"

"He wants to rebuild from the ashes of your factions. If he thinks that's the best way to gain power against us, let him think it." Bowman sat up.

"Didn't you feel that last boom?" Everard kicked him in the ribs. "Stay on the ground, you stupid piece of shit. He's not just after the national factions. The booms are targeting every single person in D.C."

"You're wrong."

"I don't have time to argue with you." Everard pointed to the imitation Washington Monument. "I'm going to walk up those stairs and stop Mr. President. What's he got waiting for me?"

"He doesn't need anything. He'll kill you with a thought."

"Yeah, we'll see." Everard turned to Meredith, Stirling, and Howser. "I'm going up. If Bowman moves an inch, put a bullet in his head."

"We're coming with you," said Meredith.

"I don't even know if I can stop him from stopping my own heart. Let alone yours."

"Someone needs help up there," said Stirling. "We're going."

"I don't think I can stop him from killing you as soon as he knows you're there," said Everard.

"We understand," said Meredith. "But we're Minutemen. If we ignore someone who needs help out of fear, what good are we?"

Howser stepped on Bowman's ankle. It snapped. "I'll keep an eye on this handsome little fella."

Bowman groaned.

"Okay," said Everard. "Let's go."

They walked inside.

Chapter Forty-Four

Everard had only been in the original Washington Monument once, a decade ago, but this was different.

Inside the lobby, two rows of statues loomed over Everard and the Minutemen. Each one was of George Washington, one hand on a cane, the other propped up on a pillar.

"Feels like they're watching us," said Meredith.

Stirling grunted agreement.

They walked between the identical rows, toward the elevator door at the far end. In the wall above was a carving of Mr. President's profile.

"We're not taking the elevator," said Everard.

"It's five hundred feet up," said Stirling.

"And that's assuming space isn't stretched here," said Meredith.

"No elevators," said Everard. To either side of the elevator were simple wooden doors. Everard opened one.

The stairwell both had walls and didn't. Everard saw the mortar and uneven stone around the worn, spiral staircase. And he also saw outside. Blurred versions of Howser and Bowman fought on the green.

Everard resisted the urge to go back to help Howser. He didn't even know if what he was seeing was real.

He started up the stairs. Above, in their present-and-not state, Everard saw the bottom of the steps. He looked up to see the translucent spiral stairs branch into several staircases. Another three stories up, each branched again, then continued that pattern. The single staircase became a sapling of stairs as it ascended, then a shady oak, then an infinite canopy of winding steps that blocked out the night sky.

"Which one goes to the top?" asked Meredith.

"Only one way to find out." Everard jogged up the steps. He paused at each branch, trying to keep as close to the center as he could. His heart pounded and his lungs burned, but he kept pushing himself.

The howls and roars of the battling monsters shook the tower.

"Do you think pulling it out of its nook damaged the integrity?" asked Stirling.

"I couldn't tell you about the structural integrity of impossible buildings," said Everard.

Something moved on a nearby staircase.

"Did you see that?" asked Meredith.

"Keep going," said Everard.

"Mr. President could have made this tower, but he couldn't make a nook," said Stirling. "Something may have already been living here."

"Makes me want to get up there even faster," said Everard.

The top floor of the Monument neared. Its floor was opaque. Twenty staircase merged into one to lead into the room. A thousand others spiraled on into the clouds.

Everard adjusted his grip on the flintlock. "You guys ready? I know you know this guy but don't hesitate. As long as he's alive, he's stopping me from destroying the machines. Kill him quick, or the booms kill everyone in the city."

Meredith adjusted her grip on her tomahawk. "We're not turning back now. Whoever needs help is in there."

They leapt up the last few stairs and through the doorway.

Pistol raised, Everard fired as soon as he saw Mr. President.

The old man stood in the corner of the observation room, watching over the city.

The blast from the pistol disappeared before hitting him.

Meredith reared back to throw her tomahawk and promptly dropped it. She and Stirling unloaded their clips at Mr. President, but the rounds smashed into the stone wall behind him.

Everard felt Mr. President's denials dart out through a thin fog.

Mr. President turned toward them. He still had the same tired lines on his face, his expression was still that of a concerned grandfather. "You Minutemen, you've fought on the side of the Fathers, so I'm giving you this chance. Walk away, and let me return this city to their original vision."

"Where's Loretta?" demanded Everard.

A howling gust of wind and the battle cries of monsters almost drowned Mr. President's voice. "She's currently unable to join us."

Stirling charged Mr. President, a heavy knife flashing towards the old man's throat.

Everard felt a swell of energy. He tried to meet the denial with his own, but Mr. President's twisted around it. The Minuteman dropped to the floor, lifeless.

Meredith ran to her friend's side, but the man was already dead. "Why? If everyone dies in the city, they'll say it was a terrorist attack, and things will go right on the way they were. You're insane."

She reached for a pistol on her ankle, and that energy swelled out from Mr. President again.

This time, Everard was ready. He anticipated Mr. President's feint, their wills clashed head on. The old man's was weaker than Everard's, but it attacked into his with precise jabs, breaking through until it pushed Everard's will back into him.

Everard staggered backward as Meredith collapsed. Mr. President caught himself on the wall.

"They only wanted to help," said Everard.

"It's a tragedy, for which I deserve no forgiveness," agreed Mr. President.

"You're as senile as Bill Bill." Everard took in his surroundings. The room was bare stone floors and walls, with a small window on each side that let in the only light. Colonial clothes and modern underclothes lay strewn across the floor.

Minnie's naked body lay unmoving. Everard guessed the Inc liaison had realized that Mr. President intended to kill more than the small groups he'd promised, and after Mr. President dealt with it, Minnie herself wasn't onboard with the mass murder either.

"I'm perfectly aware of what I'm doing. I couldn't very well deceive the CEO if I wasn't still thinking at my fullest capacities." Mr. President adjusted his blue coat. "This city's needed cleansing for decades. You agree with me, I can see it. That's why you've always stayed out of sight of the government."

"Do you honestly believe that?" If Everard could raise the pistol, pull the trigger, and deny Mr President's denial, then maybe he could stop him. He needed to keep him distracted, though. "You know why I do what I do? So psychopath, would-be dictators like you will leave me the fuck alone. Actually, so everyone will leave me the fuck alone. You're nothing but another angry old man afraid of rap music and the Internet. And you're-"

Everard raised the flintlock mid-sentence. He pulled the trigger, launched a wave of determination against the old man's denial. Mr. President dismantled the wave in an instant. The blast smashed into the wall behind him.

Mr. President caught his breath. "It's so much easier when there are no distractions."

The gun slipped out of Everard's fingers. The denial had come so quickly Everard didn't have a chance to fight it.

A roar of creaking metal and shattering glass from a few blocks away.

"Sounds like our guests are getting rowdy." Mr. President walked toward Everard, arms open for an embrace. "Everard. I'm looking past your stubbornness to ask that you look past my own flaws. I need your help."

"Fuck you." He eyed the Minutemen's weapons. "You're going to kill half a million people. A couple of them I kinda like."

Another boom rocked the city, shook the Monument. Everard fell to his knees, clutched at his gut. Agony filled him, drowned every thought.

Everard took back control of his body, pushing away the fading pain shared by everyone in the city.

Mr. President stood over him, a twisted version of the George Washington statues in the foyer five hundred feet below. "I was worried you'd be selfish. That's why I prepared some motivation for you."

Mr. President gestured toward a stone wall, which became transparent. Further up, the canopy of stairs contained another walled room.

Abby sat against a wall, blindfolded. She cradled Liz, cooing comforts.

Everard screamed their names. He let loose a barrage of desperate attacks against Mr. President. The old man deflected them all. Everard charged, ready to pound his face into a pulp. His feet went out from under him.

"If you hurt them, I'll kill you."

"You don't possess the capacity."

Everard yelled for Abby again. They couldn't hear him. Stone, stairs, and an insane old man formed an impassable breach between them.

"Help rebuild the city, Everard. Our holy Founding Fathers built this country on the rebelliousness that only you and I possess. Protect those you love."

"You're insane," said Everard.

"Because I've taken precautions against a new reality benter? Loretta must have told you that we all have threats aimed at each other at all times. You should have been prepared."

Everard gritted his teeth. "I don't want anything to do with your world."

"Don't act high and mighty. I'm fully aware of the moral implications of my actions. I know what all this means for me. Even if I walk away, the NSA will come for me. The other reality benters will come for me. Loretta's failsafe is probably already in action."

"You killed her."

"No." He gestured to the corner, where the light bent oddly around a still form. "She's alive. She does too much good in this world. She'll help you rebuild."

"The booms will kill her."

"I'm protecting her. A protection I'd extend to you, if you'd come to your senses. Although I see you're denying some of the damage yourself. You're already recovered, while the rest of the city still writhes in pain. I imagine the shock has already killed a few of the sick."

"Bill Bill," said Everard, imagining how much the pain must be terrifying his senile friend.

Mr. President's voice went taught. "He knew how much the country needs this. He felt the sorrow of the Fathers as much as I did. I have been betrayed by my closest friend."

"You're abandoning him out there to die?"

"His mind died long ago. It was wrong of me to drag it out."

"I hope there's a Hell waiting for you."

Movement from Loretta's corner. Maybe he had one more Get Out of Jail Free card. Everard slowly stood, raising his palms to show we wasn't trying to attack again.

Mr. President let him stand, confident he wasn't a threat.

Everard circled Mr. President, getting closer to Loretta.

"Seeing myself do this is my Hell. I'll face my reckoning. There must be justice for all. Murderers must be punished." He smiled, revealing perfectly white teeth. "That's the price I'm paying for the rebirth of this city. The Burgesses cannot die with me. Please, Everard. Help me. You're a rebellist. Carry the torch. Show the people the fruits of the spirit of rebellion."

"I'm not a rebellist," said Everard.

The detail of Loretta's face came into view. Her hair—normally pulled into a tight bun—was free and wild over her still face. Her open eyes stared at nothing, twitched. Her chest rose and fell. In her hand was a steel film canister, unopened.

The last flame of the Great Chicago Fire. Whatever it touched would burn until it was consumed.

Everard hatched one last Hail Mary.

He squatted by Loretta. "You said you didn't kill her."

"She's still breathing." Mr. President approached behind him.

"Why her?" Everard took her hand, slipped the canister into his own. "Why trust her to rebuild?"

"Because I know she'll make the right decisions, no matter how tough they are. It's a quality the three of us share." Mr. President touched Everard's shoulder. "Promise me you'll help rebuild this city in the way the Fathers envisioned. Tell me you'll lead the Burgesses, and I'll let you live. I'll let your loved ones live. Even your sister."

Everard faced Mr. President, trying to hide his anger. He shouldn't care about Ryker any more than he cared about a stranger he passed on the street, but Mr. President's comment made him think of Brian's grief over Renae. That was Mr. President's doing, too. Everard forced emotion out of his expression.

Brian had layers on layers of irony and sincerity. Everard needed his own layers for what he was about to attempt. Hand at his side, he pressed his thumb against the lid of the canister. "You'll let Abby and Liz go?"

"If it means a rebellist will continue to lead the Burgesses," said Mr. President.

"And protect Ryker?"

Mr. President acquiesced less willingly. "Yes."

"What about my-" Everard launched a mental assault, throwing all his will at denying Mr. President's heartbeat. He easily punched into the now-thin fog, almost broke through the outside, thinking for a moment he might actually do it, and then a flurry of precise strikes shut him down.

Face to face, Mr. President sneered at him. "I'll kill you for that. I'll kill everyone you love."

"That's a short list." Everard stepped away from Mr. President, raising his defenses to protect Abby and Liz. "But you'd still better hurry."

Everard pointed to the edge of the old man's jacket, now in flames. He reattached the lid and dropped the canister back into his pocket.

Mr. President groaned in annoyance. Everard felt him attempt to deny the flames. Nothing happened.

"Unstoppable object, meet immovable force," said Everard.

The fire spread across Mr. President's entire jacket. He should have added some modern fire-proofing to his antique wool. He shrieked, swatted at the flames. They spread to his flesh, instantly blistering his skin.

Denials leapt out from Mr. President, wild and spastic. Everard swatted them down.

Everard never imagined he'd enjoy watching someone burn to death, but it had its appeal. At least if the victim had been about to murder six hundred thousand people.

Another denial from Mr. President. Everard missed blocking it. His heart dropped and he looked to Abby and Liz, but they were fine.

The old man stopped shrieking. He stood straight, entire body in flames, his skin red, black, and blistered. His clothes hung about him in tatters. The fire did no more damage.

"Unquenchable fire," he said. "I expect Bermuda's behind this?"

Everard backed away.

Mr. President's wounds reversed, blisters shrinking back into the skin, bright reds and charred blacks fading. The flame raged on, but Mr. President denied that it burned him.

"I offered to save you." Mr. President stepped toward Everard. "To save the people you love."

He stopped next to Loretta.

"Don't touch her," said Everard.

"Or what? How would you stop me? You're strong. Maybe the strongest rebellist in a thousand years. But you're untrained, inexperienced. In a year's time, you might be able to face me. Today, you're nothing."

"Don't," pleaded Everard. He hated himself for the weakness he heard in his own voice. And for his actual weakness. He couldn't save the only two people he loved. He couldn't save Loretta.

"You just proved a valuable point I'd been ignoring. People like us don't change our minds. You, me, Loretta. She won't help rebuild, will she? There's no reason to keep her alive."

He'd screwed up. Should have kept his mouth shut. Now he was completely helpless to stop Mr. President. Hundreds of thousands of people, all terrified of the spasms of pain right now, would die. He'd get to witness Abby and Liz experience it firsthand.

He imagined Liz suffering Santa Muerte's fate. She wouldn't know what was going on. She'd die in confused agony, and Everard would have failed to protect her a second time.

And Abby. All the cautious conversations they'd had about their future, pointless now. No point fearing what the Bloat had stolen from him—now any chance of a future with Abby was gone.

It wasn't just them.

Bill Bill would never watch the Nationals from behind home plate.

Brian would never tell his kids about their aunt.

But what he couldn't get out of his head was Loretta's family. Loretta wanted them more than anyone Everard knew had ever wanted anything. She'd put off living the life she wanted for the greater good, loathed herself for it, and now the life she wanted was gone.

But over the past two days, Everard had done the same thing. For all he talked about living the life he wanted, he'd put off the life he really wanted for some dumb quest to get revenge on Inc.

He never wanted to save D.C. He never wanted to find the Periphery at all.

Everard stepped forward, faced Mr. President nose to nose. If he was going to die, he'd do it spitting in the face of his murderer.

Mr. President would have stood taller than Everard in his prime, but age had hunched his shoulders. Heat emanated from the burning man.

"She has to die," said Mr. President. "You can't change who you are. Her nature is to be stubborn. She was practically a rebellist like you and me."

"I'm nothing like you."

Mr. President scoffed. "Don't waste your last breath denying what you are."

And there was the real culprit, the real cause for his troubles. Why he'd ended it with Abby, and why she and Liz were being targeted now. Why he'd been willing to accept Bill Bill's deal. Why he had to face down Inc. Why he thought it was his responsibility to save the city. His bent was a curse, forcing his life down a path he didn't want. An authority that ruled him like a tyrant.

"You're a rebellist," said Mr. President.

"No."

His will pushed into the mist, circled around, flung itself back at his own mind.

Power exploded within him. The last flash of a lightbulb going out. The backdraft in a burning building. The nuclear blast as a powerplant imploded.

Mr. President staggered back in shock, sensing the weight of his opponent. He attacked, furiously denying Everard's heartbeat, his balance, his sight. A fury of precise strikes. Pebbles against a wall of solid oak. The old man screamed in rage.

Everard denied Mr. President.

An empty corpse hit the ground, cracked like a husk. With nothing left to consume, the fire went out.

His power was fading fast. Everard denied the converter. Energy building to another boom dissipated.

He turned his attention to the battling monsters, but his bent was gone. He was useless to stop them.

Chapter Forty-Five

The monsters' battle raged on. Furious gusts beat against the tower. Glass shattered. Steel creaked, bent, and broke.

Everard ran along the maze of staircases to Liz and Abby, the city hundreds of feet below him. He reached the stone room and rushed inside.

Liz sobbed in Abby's arms, still blindfolded.

"Abby! Liz!" Everard grabbed them both and held them close.

"Where are we?" moaned Liz.

"Everard?" asked Abby. "I don't know what's happening. I can't stand up."

Mr. President must have denied their balance to hold them captive.

"Try now."

They both stood.

"Does that mean these blindfolds will actually come off, too?"

Everard stopped her. Better to get them down the stairs first. Nobody should be forced to see the impossibilities of the Periphery. "Leave them on. There's things here you don't want to see."

"I will not." Abby removed her blindfold.

"What is it?" asked Liz. "I don't want to look."

"You don't have to." Abby spoke to her like one of her second graders.

"I'll explain everything in a minute. We should get out of here first."

He led them down the branching staircases. Abby's fear at the height and the bizarrities of everything was tucked aside to comfort Liz, who whimpered at every thunder crack.

She stopped, stiffened. "Who's that?"

Loretta limped down from the observation room. She saw Everard. "Meredith and Minnie are still alive."

He had saved somebody. "We'll send Howser back for them."

It took fifteen minutes to reach the ground. The walls solidified around them, the physics of the other nook fading as the second monument settled into the Central Nook.

They walked past the George Washington statues and out onto the lawn.

Outside, the flashes and roars in the sky had moved west. The wind was dying down, although the storm had left branches, leaves, and trash strewn across the sidewalks and grass.

Howser was folding up a dark suit.

Everard removed Liz's blindfold. "It's all okay now, I promise."

She blinked, looked around. "That man didn't like you."

"No, I guess not," said Everard.

"Who was he?" asked Abby. "They grabbed me on my front porch. I never saw them."

"It's a lot to explain. Give me a minute and I will."

"What happened up there?" Howser asked.

"Ask him," said Loretta.

"I killed Mr. President. Broke the converter. Couldn't get rid of the monsters."

"With Mr. President dead, Bermuda must have got his lure working," said Loretta. "They're already getting farther away. Feel that?"

The storm died down, but Everard didn't feel a thing. "No."

Loretta leaned closer to Everard. "Your bent's gone."

"I got tired of it. How much damage did those things do to the city?"

"No telling yet," said Howser. "Probably a lot."

"Howser, Meredith and Minnie are still alive up there. Can you bring them down?"

"Not Stirling?"

Loretta shook her head.

Howser nodded solemnly. "Hold this for me while I'm gone." He handed Loretta the suit and jogged inside.

Loretta looked up at the two monuments. "What'd you do?"

"I sort of pulled the Monument out of its nook."

"You did what?"

"Pulled this out of its nook. Don't ask me to do it again."

"The NSA is going to have a hard time explaining the new five hundred foot tower on the National Mall."

"Speaking of the NSA, should we go help Ryker?"

"Too late for that. I got the report before I found Mr. President. The Resistance's attack failed. The NSA inflicted a few casualties and took a few prisoners. Your sister wasn't among them."

A thin crowd wandered across the Mall, towards the new dual stone towers. The Denizens who'd taken shelter in the Hall of Burgesses.

"What about Brian?" asked Everard. "I don't think I can get him back."

"I'll do it. I'll get Fiametta to clean me up, and then I'll find him tonight. I'm not losing my sidekick."

"Thank you."

Others joined the refugee Denizens, emerging from their nooks as the storm and battle faded.

Everard saw the CEO among them. He raised his voice to take control of the situation, until someone yelled, "I saw you with the Narco Saints," followed by murmurs of agreement.

He argued, but the people weren't hearing it. The video had already blossomed rumors.

Everard asked Loretta to stay with Abby and Live, then approached the CEO.

The crowd went silent at the confrontation.

"Where's Brian?" demanded Everard.

The CEO ran his hand along his hairline then touched his knuckle to his lips, like the rogue CEO had done.

"You took over," said Everard.

"And I thank you for help," he said quietly. "Your friend is not quite up to our standards. I imagine he's finding his way home as we speak. I expect that favor will encourage you to look the other way at my former colleagues' indiscretions."

Everard stared blankly. The new CEO was afraid of him. "I'll look the other way. Doesn't look like they will."

The crowd continued to jeer and threaten as the CEO sulked away.

A familiar, murky voice rose above the crowd.

"I want to assure everyone that you're still safe. I will make sure the dangerous elements of our city are dealt with."

Everard pushed through the crowd until he found Undone Duncan. The Cursed Strongman talked down to everyone figuratively and literally. His skin hung loose in some places and clung tight in others. He noticed Everard.

"And here's our hero."

"Shut the fuck up, Duncan," said Everard. "You've never protected anyone in your life."

"I protect my friends every day. And now I'm extending that to the community. We just saw both Inc and the Burgesses try to destroy our home. Someone has to protect the Periphery." Undone Duncan stepped forward, towered over Everard.

Everard stared impassively back. Inside, his heart raced. Undone Duncan could break him with a twitch of his arm. But he didn't know that. "Go back to your hole."

"And if I don't?"

Everard looked slowly over his shoulder at the second Monument, then at the empty sky above the city. "Mr. President is dead. Bowman was stripped from his host. The Mothman, Jersey Devil, and Boogeyman are fleeing the city."

The people shifted back.

Undone Duncan clenched his fists, realizing the error of challenging the man who'd just killed the most powerful man in the city.

"Look," said a voice from the crowd. "He's afraid of him. Undone Duncan is afraid."

The bigger man stared down Everard, then repeated himself to the crowd, "My organization will keep you safe."

It came off as weak this time, and the crowd responded negatively. The people closest stayed quiet, though. It was one thing to recognize that the Cursed Strongman was afraid. It was another thing entirely to not fear him.

Everard left Undone Duncan angry and confused at how to threaten Everard while trying to make the people trust him.

He took one more look at the crowd of Periphery denizens. They watched him silently, expectantly.

Everard walked away.

"Where's he going?"

"Say something."

"You say something."

He went to Abby and Liz. "Let's get out of here."

"Who are those people?" asked Abby.

Everard shook Loretta's hand. "Stay in touch."

Loretta laughed. "Call me if you need help running away from anything."

Everard, Abby, and Liz walked across the grass to Constitution where he could call a cab.

"Okay," said Everard. "I said I'll explain everything. Where do you want me to start?"

As he answered Abby's questions about where he'd been, and Liz's tentative questions about who Abby was, Everard finally understood why Loretta sounded like a different person when she was talking to her family.

Chapter Forty-Six

Epilogue

Everard leaned past the edge of the sailboat, keeping it balanced as they glided over the lake.

Abby leaned with him, biting her lip and scrunching her brow like she did anytime she was concentrating on something new.

Behind them, Loretta and Jose—who Everard still wasn't sure was actually named Jose—raced up alongside them in their own dingy.

"Getting the hang of it yet?" yelled Jose.

"We've got natural talent!" yelled Abby, pointing closer to shore. "Better than them."

Brian lounged in the back of a third boat, while Loretta's two kids—Caitlin and Christopher—manned the sheets. After his sister's death and his temporary possession a year ago, Loretta added him to the list of people and cats who could help keep an eye on her family. Brian warmed to it quickly.

Loretta and Jose sailed on by, more skilled at harnessing the wind.

"Is she using her gift?" asked Abby.

"No," said Everard. "They're just better at this than us."

There'd been several months when Abby would only meet him for coffee, or other short, informal dates. But as she came to trust him, and as he opened up about his secrets, those brief conversations turned longer and more personal, until they were talking about moving in together.

The wind shifted, and their boat dumped them into the lake.

Brian and the kids pulled close, and Christopher leapt into the water.

"No, man, you're supposed to help them!" said Brian, but Caitlin jumped in, too.

Loretta and Jose turned around and tacked back toward them.

Soon, they were all in the water, stopping each other from righting their boats.

Everard found himself holding on to the same boat as Jose while the others splashed and squealed.

"I've been meaning to talk to you," said Jose.

"We talk all the time," said Everard.

"I know, but, I need to ask a favor. Or, I guess, just for you to think about something."

"You've noticed," said Everard.

Jose nodded. "You can sense Loretta using her bent. Your bent's coming back. Some denials don't last."

"It's coming back," admitted Everard. "I can still only manage small tricks, but it's been getting stronger all the time."

Jose paused, searching for the best words. "They're afraid of you."

"I am, too. Everyone saw the damage Mr. President caused. The whole damn city should be afraid of me."

"No," said Jose. "I mean the people who people are afraid of are afraid of you. Parents tell their kids who are afraid of the Boogeyman, 'don't worry, the rebellist chased him out of the city.' Folks walk around safer, knowing the reskinned are afraid you'll notice them."

"I've laid low for almost a year."

"You saved the city from Mr. President, and both the CEO and Undone Duncan publicly backed down to you. I don't know exactly what happened, but the rumors have grown. They say you told Duncan to go fuck himself."

"That's pretty much true, actually."

"Loretta's tired."

"Ah." Everard had figured this was coming. Loretta had devoted half her life to being scarier than the bad guys.

"People might remember you for centuries, but that emotion will change. It'll be awe and respect instead of fear. I don't know when Loretta will get another chance like this."

Everard watched Loretta throw Christopher in the air, felt the buzz of her bent as she slowed his descent before he smacked the water. Brian let Caitlin chase him around their capsized boat. He was laughing, but he kept glancing at other boats, and at folks on the shore. He was a bodyguard as much as a babysitter. Everard looked to the bank, and sure enough, a stray cat watched them intently.

Loretta's life was still one of constant vigilance.

"It's not forever," said Jose. "Once you two start your own family, someone else will come along who can take over. Eventually."

"I don't want to be Batman," said Everard.

Jose swallowed. "I understand."

"But if Loretta won't retire until someone else takes the job, well, someone's got to make her think about herself a little. Let me talk to Abby before I say yes, but she'll support me. She loves you guys."

Jose looked like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "Thank you. You're saving my family."

"Go play with your kids," said Everard.

With the biggest shit-eating grin plastered on, Jose swam to join the lifejacket-enhanced rough housing.

Abby swam up to hang onto the boat and Everard. "What were you guys talking about?"

"Job opportunity."

"You're giving up carpentry?"

"This would be more of a side thing." He kissed her temple, tasting lake water. "How'd you feel about me going back to the Periphery?"

"You said it was dangerous."

"It is. But it'd let Loretta spend more time with her family."

"Would you be able to help Bill Bill?" Everard had taken Abby to meet Bill Bill in his new nursing home. His old neighbor had mostly stared at the wall.

"Probably." Everard had been thinking about that. Once he'd noticed his bent returning, he realized he'd be able to deny Bill Bill's senility, exactly how Mr. President had done. It would be so precise, though, that Everard worried about attempting it. What if he botched it, and the fallout damaged Bill Bill's brain? That worry had kept him from even considering what he knew Abby was about to ask next.

"What about Liz? If you can undo the damage to Bill Bill's mind, can you undo the damage to hers?"

"I don't know. I think so, once I'm good enough."

"You'll be able to help a lot of people."

"Honestly, I'd do it because it'd get Loretta to stop feeling so sorry for herself."

"You're not nearly as selfish as you think you are."

"That's why I work hard at it every day."

"Will I be part of it, when you go back to the Periphery? Or would this be some secret life you can't tell me about?"

"Entirely your decision." Everard kicked out into the water. "I'm not going to tell you what to do."

Author’s Note

Thanks for getting lost in the Periphery with me.

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- Ben Farthing