“If it moves, kill it,” Martha called out. “I don’t want to hear anything but us breathing in this parking lot!”
I held my arm out to Derek. “Pinch me.”
He reached over.
“Ow.”
“She’s the alpha of Clan Heavy,” he said. “Martha is really nice but only until someone tries to screw with her family.”
Chapter 22
BY THE TIME Curran and Mahon arrived, together with six knights of the Order, and Luther, Patrice, and another Biohazard mage whose name I hadn’t caught, the parking lot was filled with shadhavar bodies. Clan Heavy sustained no casualties.
“You missed the slaughter,” I reported.
Curran grimaced. “You missed me carrying horses over the rubble.”
Curran and horses didn’t get along. He thought they were unpredictable and untrustworthy, and they thought he was a werelion.
I waited until Mahon was out of earshot. “Why didn’t you tell me Martha was a terminator in disguise?”
He smiled. “She was Aunt B’s best friend. I thought you’d figure it out sooner or later. Where is your ride?”
“He went into the hospital to scout.”
“Then we should follow.”
It took about thirty seconds to gather everyone. We went through the doors single file: Derek first, tracking Adib’s scent; Curran and me; then Bahir, leading Amal gently; the knights; the mages, protected from all sides because they squished easily; and finally Clan Heavy. George walked between her parents. She and Martha wore identical pinched expressions. Mahon was clearly in the doghouse.
We passed through the deserted hallway of the ER, then through the doorway, its doors lying on the floor. A light glowed ahead, in the gap of a crumbling wall. Derek moved toward it. We followed.
A vast garden unrolled before us. Lush flowers bloomed among the greenery. Ponds offered crystal-clear water, reflecting the delicate petals of pink, white, and lavender lotuses. Palms rustled overhead, over curving paths of golden sand.
I stepped through the gap. In the distance, reigning over the splendor, a palace rose. It wasn’t the glowing white perfection and slim minarets of the Taj Mahal, with its arched balconies or its golden cupolas. Instead, a forest of colossal columns stood among the greenery, their length painted a brilliant red. Each column terminated in a carved textured pedestal of vivid, almost turquoise, blue, upon which a golden animal statue snarled at the garden, its head and body supporting the sharp rectangular blue roof, decorated with a textured parapet of golden spikes. This was an ancient palace, conceived in the time when dyes were prized, height was awe-inspiring, and elegance and subtlety were faults rather than virtues. It meant to communicate true power—the power to make countless human beings toil all of their lives as slaves to raise those columns to their dizzying height. It hit your senses like a hammer. I hated it.
How much power must it have taken to create this out of nothing?
Next to me, Curran squared his shoulders. The palace was a challenge thrown at unseen opponents. Come and take it if you dare. Curran wrinkled his lip, his eyes gold. He dared.
I elbowed Curran. “Hey, when I said blue would be nice for the downstairs, I didn’t mean that kind of blue.”
“Maybe it’s his ace in a hole,” he said, his face dark. “Thirty seconds in that palace and we’ll go blind.”
“It has to be at least three miles wide,” Nick said next to me. “How the hell is he folding it into this building?
“The madman lies.” Adib emerged from the bushes and stopped midway in the pond.
“The flowers have no scent,” Derek said. “I smell dust and a few other things, but none of this.”
I crouched by the pond and scooped some water. I could see it in my hand, but I felt nothing. There was no substance.
“The knight-archivarius must’ve wished for this place,” Luther said. “But the djinn didn’t have enough power, so he gave her an illusion.”
Bahir reached into the scabbard on his waist and unsheathed a blade. It was a beautiful sword, almost straight, single-edged, with a portion of the blade near the tip, about ten inches long, curved for a vicious strike. Bahir cut his arm. Blood ran down his blade and burst into flame. He raised the flaming sword like a torch. His skin gained a darker golden hue. His eyes turned red like two glowing embers. The garden parted before him, melting. A path opened, about a foot across, the ground not some golden sand, but the typical dirt and rocks found in Atlanta.
“Lead the way,” Curran told him.
We followed Bahir toward the palace.