The Power (The Magnificent 12 4)

And so they rode off toward the east, not realizing that was the wrong way. They really had no idea where they were going. But there was no one to ask directions of, and horses just do not come with a built-in navigation system.

Mack even tried the maps app on his phone. He knew it wouldn’t work, but it comforted him somehow to have this shiny object from the future as a reminder.

Then he saw that he’d had a call. And a voice mail. Both from the golem. Sadly the message could not be played because, well, pretty much every single thing that would make voice mail possible didn’t exist yet.

It worried him. But then, he had plenty of other things to worry about. The golem would have to manage on his own.

Eleven

MEANWHILE, 7,831 MILES (AND 400 YEARS) AWAY, IN SEDONA, ARIZONA

Camaro lay dying.

But she didn’t die.

Oh, she should have. The Skirrit lance had pierced her heart, and that is the kind of thing that causes death. But the bleeding had been slowed by the detached finger of the golem. It seemed to be nothing but mud; however, there’s a big difference between mud mud and mud that’s been fashioned into a golem and given magical life.

The golem’s magic stopped the bleeding. It knit torn veins and arteries back together. It fused flesh. It melded the strands of muscle.

When Grimluk shaped the golem, he did so with mud and twigs and one more ingredient: the magic of the Vargran tongue when spoken by one who possesses the enlightened puissance. It was that magic that kept the golem alive and functioning and basically immortal. And now a bit of the golem was working to heal Camaro Angianelli.

Ten minutes after being fatally stabbed, Camaro took off the oxygen mask the emergency medical technicians had put on her, and ripped the needle from her arm, and stood up and said, “I really do not like that redhead.”

Camaro wasn’t dead, but she was definitely worn out, so she went home and had a good night’s sleep.

The next morning she set out in search of “Mack,” but the golem could not be found. She went to his house, knocked on the door, and asked Mack’s father if he knew where Mack was.

“Hmmm,” Mack’s father said thoughtfully. “Is today his football practice?”

Today was not his football practice. Because Mack was not on the football team. So, obviously, neither was the golem.

Camaro didn’t want to upset the MacAvoy family, so she did not tell them of her suspicion that “Mack” was about to be made the unwitting slave of an evil demon goddess. For one thing, there was no way for her to explain it without sounding jealous of Risky.

Camaro was not jealous. Though it was true that Risky was stunningly beautiful while she, Camaro, was merely cute edging toward pretty, she was not jealous.

No way. Why would she be?

She thought all this through as she walked the streets of Sedona, occasionally yelling, “Mack! Mack!” Though she wished she could call out, “Golem!”

Camaro searched everywhere, all through the neighborhoods and all up and down 89A, which was the main road through town.

Finally, dusty, hot, thirsty, and discouraged, she became far more discouraged when she ran into a woman she knew outside the run-down, sleazy, disreputable Arpaio Motel at the farthest limits of the town. Camaro bought a bottle of water and recognized the manager.

“Hey, aren’t you Mrs. Lafrontiere?”

“That’s me, honey.” She was an older woman, if by “older,” you meant “in her forties.” She was drinking a cup of tea and gazing off toward the red limestone hills that surround Sedona.

“I’m looking for someone,” Camaro said. “One is a kind of monsterlike thing, and the other is a redhead.”

Mrs. Lafrontiere—who, like much of the population of Sedona, was also a clairvoyant spiritual healer as well as motel manager—nodded. She looked closely, suspiciously at Camaro. “I saw them. It was late last night. A frightening creature ten feet tall. And a girl with red hair. She had the most extraordinary green eyes, perfect pale skin, a wonderful body—”

“Yeah, that’s them,” Camaro interrupted. Frankly she’d heard enough about Risky’s looks.

“She was an incomparable beauty with—”

“She’s not that pretty,” Camaro snapped.

“Like an angel, she was.”