The Power (The Magnificent 12 4)

“We didn’t save Dietmar,” Mack said grimly. Mack had never really liked Dietmar—which may be why he felt so guilty.

Dietmar was not the only one to die that day. Evil takes a toll. There’s a price to be paid for freedom. It could have been much worse. They all knew it could have been much worse. But all Mack could think about now was Dietmar.

Camaro grabbed his shoulders. “Listen to me, Mack. This isn’t over. She has plans.”

“Who?”

“The redhead; who do you think? She’s got the golem under her control. She thinks she’s the new Pale Queen. She’s not done yet, which means, neither are you!”

“But we’re only eleven now,” Mack said dully.

“No,” Camaro said. “Eleven plus Stefan, plus all the bullies, plus—most important—the golem.”

“But you said Risky has him under control.”

“Yeah, well, I think something has changed with the golem. I think maybe he’s not so easy to control.”

Mack shook his head. “You don’t understand, Camaro. He’s just a sort of mindless robot made out of mud and clay. He is whatever he’s programmed to be.”

Camaro looked fierce then. “And I say he’s more than that. Anyway, you want to take down the redhead? She’ll be with the golem: back in Sedona.”

The mayor was still nearby, directing police and firefighters. The city was in a mess. There were surviving Tong Elves and Skirrit still running around the streets.

It was a very tough day in the life of the mayor, and he would have many, many more tough days ahead.

But he had not forgotten Mack, and when Mack tugged at his sleeve and said, “We need a favor,” the mayor was quick to respond.

Phone calls were made, and thirty minutes later the Magnificent Twelve . . . Eleven . . . were on board a military jet racing toward Sedona.

Thirty-one

SEDONA

It’s about 626 miles, give or take, from San Francisco to Sedona. The flight lasted about an hour and a half.

Sedona’s airport is basically just a landing strip. It’s not exactly JFK or O’Hare or one of those big, busy places.

The jet landed, and because it was an air force jet there was no Jetway, just a ramp, and they were let off on the hot tarmac under an Arizona sun.

Eleven twelve-year-olds with the enlightened puissance. Jarrah, Xiao, Sylvie, Charlie, Rodrigo, Valin, Ilya, Hillary, José, Camaro, and Mack.

And one fifteen-year-old.

They were not all friends. Some of them had only shown up hours before. Some, like Mack and Valin, had been enemies. But now they were all united by a common experience: they had all faced the Pale Queen.

And they had all seen Dietmar fall to his death.

And they knew who was responsible.

The mayor of San Francisco and the United States Air Force had arranged for a truck to meet them as they got off the plane. The truck drove them into Sedona.

“So, this is your home,” Jarrah said. “Not so different from mine, really. Dry and hot.”

“It was my home,” Mack said. “I don’t know if it still is.”

He was changed, our Mack. And he felt it.

“Where to?” the driver asked.