plane and beyond it, like the tainted swath of land encircling it. This was what allowed for the vast, impossible expanse of rooms on the upper level, enough rooms to fill the most extravagant mansion. Several dozen, at least. From the outside, however, the structure’s top floor looked big enough for only a fraction as many.
This flagrant defiance of the laws of physics also allowed for alternate means of movement through the fluid structure. The dark passages between the walls were accessible by more than the conventional means of ingress and egress. Here and there were places where the fabric of existence was altered in an enhanced way, portals through which those sensitive to their presence could move from room to room within the beat of a demon’s heart.
Giselle passed through portal after portal, pausing at each stretch of passageway just long enough to gauge its stability. She would lay a hand on the cold walls, close her eyes, and allow her uniquely sensitive mind to search for signs of volatility. Anything out of the ordinary would be cause for alarm. A disturbance in the energy field could indicate The Master’s awareness of the impending revolt, a development that would doom the effort before it could even begin. She was looking for anything, any subtle hint of something amiss, but there was nothing.
Only the usual cold emptiness.
She allowed herself a smile.
Just a small one.
Because she knew the danger was still immense. The uprising’s chances of success depended on keeping The Master off guard until it was too late. Until the moment of his death was at hand. For that to occur, every aspect of her long-ago-conceived plan would have to come together with utter precision. Which entailed a perfect confluence of events and players. At least she could be sure Eddie would be where he needed to be when he needed to be. The sex magic had, of course, eliminated any ability he had to resist her. The rest of it was maddeningly out of her control.
She did, however, trust her fellow revolutionaries Below.
Especially Lazarus.
The only man she’d ever loved.
And the only one she could never have.
The man was a mythical figure to the banished people, believed dead for years but not forgotten. The amazing man was haunted by demons from his distant past, and he had a pronounced penchant for whiskey. However, he possessed a remarkable ability to remain lucid no matter how much he imbibed. He was a man of clear vision and unwavering conviction, and he’d inspired the people of Below. People flocked to him, clamored to hear him speak, and they derived hope from his words.
Of course, the power structure Below soon moved in to silence him.
A slave was bribed to assassinate him.
It happened at a Gathering.
Gatherings were the weekly festivals of music and dancing the slaves were allowed to participate in. They were spectacles of debauchery. The slaves fought and fucked in a frenzied burst of revelry the likes of which even New Orleans had never seen. People died. Buildings collapsed. Babies were conceived. It all served a larger purpose, of course-to further pacify the herds. The distractions of inebriation and internal conflict effectively stifled any possibility of revolt.
But Lazarus changed the tenor of the Gatherings.
They became opportunities to hear the charismatic man discourse at length on varied topics. He talked about the world they’d known. The world beyond this place. Its wars and history of petty conflict. He talked about men and women of rare courage. People who had been willing to take a stand during difficult times.
He was a learned, erudite man.
And a dangerous one.
Enter a slave who called himself Kansas.
The assassin.
His target didn’t suspect anything until he was crumpled on the ground with a knife in his chest. The guards moved in and whisked him away. A guard then shot Kansas in the face, and the dead Judas was carried off to the tunnels by a shapeshifter.
The slaves were too stunned by the events to riot, their grief was too enormous. A long period of mourning ensued, and Gatherings were never quite the same.
Sometimes, however, there’s more to the picture than what’s seen on the surface.
One of Giselle’s confederates was a high-ranking guard. He assumed responsibility for the disposal of the old singer’s body, a detail no one else wanted. A cursory check of the body revealed a faint pulse. The guard summoned a slave who’d been a nurse Above. She tended to Lazarus as best she could, using the meager supplies available to perform miracles. The wound, though deep and ragged, had managed to miss anything vital.
Lazarus survived.
The nurse’s name was Cindy.
Rumors of the old man’s survival circulated Below. There were occasional “sightings.” Most of these were bogus, but on occasion a slave would glimpse a man who looked very much like a disguised Lazarus being escorted place to place by a grim-faced cadre of protectors. So began the myth of Lazarus. It was at this point that his more devout followers began to ascribe Christ-like attributes to the man.
He was a savior, these people said.
And one day he would arise again.
The Overlords scoffed.
Giselle was unable to suppress another smile.
It would happen.
She blinked through another portal, laid a hand on the coarse stone—
But this was not stone.
It was drywall. Plaster covered with dry paint. Which meant the room on the other side of this wall was in use for discipline purposes. Giselle closed her eyes, leaned her head against the wall, and let her mind see what was happening on the other side.
She flinched.
Ms. Wickman.
The ruthless, despicable woman was The Master’s most exalted-and most trusted-servant. She was cruel in ways the other apprentices could never equal. Giselle was capable of cruelty herself. It was a job requirement for the apprentices. She had killed people. Tortured them. Made them do awful things to themselves and people they cared about. But it all served a higher purpose. She did what she did to keep working behind the scenes, to see to it that she and her allies accomplished the momentous thing they’d worked toward for years.
Ms. Wickman, however, enjoyed hurting people.
Just as she was hurting the women in this room. Giselle saw a nude, teary-faced black woman tied to the bed. A drooling shapeshifter hovered over her. Another girl, also nude, was on her hands and knees on the floor. She was Asian. Her body was laced with lash marks. A smiling Ms. Wickman watched her from a bedside perch. She sat next to the black woman, a straight razor at her throat. Another apprentice, a black-clad man with wavy dark hair, stood over the Asian girl, a broadax propped over his shoulder.
Giselle felt a surge of compassion for the black woman.
Ms. Wickman was asking her questions no one should ever have to answer.
Life-and-death questions.
Giselle knew the women were beyond her help, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the anguish she felt. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Over the years, she’d built a wall against emotions. Survival required a distance, an inner coldness, and she’d cultivated that detachment so well she’d stopped feeling anything. However, now that her plan was finally coming to fruition, that wall was crumbling.
In her mind, she saw Ms. Wickman frown.
And look toward the wall.
Giselle quickly blinked back through the portal, but she could still see Ms. Wickman’s penetrating eyes. She blinked rapidly through a succession of portals until she was in the small antechamber behind her own room. She stood on the pedestal where she’d performed the tongue ritual. She rubbed her eyes hard, and the menacing countenance of The Master’s top servant was gone.
