I hurry forward and pass through an archway. It’s guarded on either side by gigantic statues of sword-wielding strongmen. I spare only a brief glance at the statues’ maniacal expressions, their laurel crowns of blue-green patina, and their general nakedness—only enough time to make sure the statues remain inanimate.
I pass over a thick concrete slab bridge that was added over a dry moat. A courtyard greets me on the other side. This must’ve been the residence of the mayor or some other figurehead of the city. It’s a headquarters now, inhabited by more matchstick men built for war, if the dull fire in their eyes is any indication.
The cavernous old building houses a flurry of activity. Sophisticated control rooms make up most of the ground floor. Monitoring stations wrap around central holograms amid the backdrop of the ornate, gothic chambers. The holograms map out and scrutinize sections of Amster, but others monitor a variety of places on Ethar. I recognize the Isle of Sky—or what’s left of it. In the war-torn streets of Rafe’s city, just outside the courthouse where I was made Manus’s ward, the wounded and dead lie in piles in the streets while Alameeda Strikers, wearing eerie, snake-coiled gas masks with owlish eyeholes, point flamethrowers at them and turn them into billowing-embered bonfires.
The Amster soldier nearest me watches the carnage playing out on the holographic screen. His expression changes from stoic to fearful. It unnerves me as much as the scene in the holographic image. I don’t want to see more. I keep moving, skirting another hologram—this one of a pristine city where fireworks of every color burst and shatter the skyline with brilliant-colored letters spelling out the Etharian word for V I C T O R Y in the darkness. The scene draws a crowd of soldiers. Their passionate eyes are made shiny by the colorful light before them, painting their faces burning red, gold, and umber.
Time won’t wait for me to figure out what’s going on. The invisible chain I’m dangling on tugs me toward the wide stairs in the corner of the room. The black uniformed Amster soldiers on the staircase don’t know I’m there. I pass through them uncontested and rise up the uneven flagstone. It winds around inside the walls like a spiraling seashell. I reach a landing. A commissary encompasses this floor. I don’t stop, but continue to climb, following the urgent tug.
Behind me there’s a loud clatter. Giffen stands in front of an overturned chair amid a roomful of soldiers who continue to move and talk around him. His handsome features bear the expression of someone who has had all the hairs on the back of his neck stick straight up. His long, sandy-colored dreadlocks fall behind his shoulders and away from his face as he turns his head. His eyes, as they dart in my direction, are unexpectedly intimate. For a moment I think he sees me. He flexes his hands in an animalistic way as he straightens his broad shoulders, but his green eyes leave me and scan the area, searching for the source of the change of energy in the air. I’m glad he can’t see me. I’m not here to talk to him. I hope he thinks I’m a demon rising from the dead.
Without pause, I’m dragged to the top of the building. I pass through a large carved-stone threshold into a high-ceilinged room with dormers that lead to the rooftop outside. Unoccupied, hovering cots line the walls in rows. The lighting is so dim that anyone could hide in the crevices of the room undetected. A low hum of a distant machine captures my attention. In the last hoverbed in the corner I find Trey. My nonexistent stone heart squeezes tight like a phantom limb.
Unconscious on a hovering cot, Trey is surrounded by odds and ends of wires and tubes. They appear to be some sort of monitoring system, checking his vital signs. A thick metal band clamps his brow and wraps around the circumference of his head. The band has readouts made of flashing lights.
I eliminate the space between us, if not the time, by crawling in bed beside him, cuddling my phantom form up to his real one. “I’m here,” I say the words, but I don’t know if he can hear me. Maybe they’re just thoughts.
From around the corner comes the thump of running feet. Astrid skitters into the room with a startled expression on her face. She reaches out and grasps the back of a chair to steady her tall frame. She bends a bit at the waist, trying to catch her breath. She clearly ran up the stairs outside to get here. Tossing her long black hair back over her shoulder, she straightens and glances behind her as Raspin tumbles into view. His large form fills the doorway. He sweeps the bangs of his copper-colored hair away from his face as he watches Astrid.
Giffen taps Raspin on the shoulder, getting his attention so that he can squeeze by his friend and enter the room. Giffen looks around in confusion and says, “I thought I felt—”