Thief Of Souls

“You!” he said, pointing to another. “I want every­one ready to go by dawn. I’m making it your personal responsibility.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and sped off.

“You!” he said to another. “We’ll need buses, cars, vans—'

“Buses have already been chartered, and are on the way,” said a calm, familiar voice. “Enough for every­ one.” Dillon turned to see Okoya stepping out from behind a tree.

The other Shards were fit to be tied.

“Will someone tell us what the hell is going on?” demanded Winston. “Why are we leaving, and why wasn’t I consulted?”

“Yeah,” added Tory. “Maybe we like it here.”

“SHUT UP!” shouted Okoya, putting a brutal end to the questioning. “You’ll do as Dillon says.” And then he softened. “Dillon has your best interests at heart . . . . Don’t you, Dillon?”

Dillon took in the sight of the other Shards. Just as before, they were standing in isolation; together yet di­ vided. Well, Dillon didn’t know how to change that, but he could still make them work together.

“You want to be followed? You want to be wor­shiped? You want to be loved and adored?” Dillon looked at each of them one by one. “Well, you will be.”

Not by hundreds, but by millions. I’ll make sure of it. All you have to do is work with me, and do what I tell you, when I tell you to do it.”

“Where are we going?” asked Michael.

“Somewhere we can put on a show,” was all Dillon said for now. He waited to see their response. They all looked to each other, distrustful, none of them wanting to be the first to acquiesce. It was Okoya who coaxed them into submission. “If an alliance serves everyone’s interest,” Okoya said, “why not take advantage of it?”

“I thought,” Lourdes said to Dillon, “that you wanted to save the world.”

“We will,” Dillon answered. “Once we take control of it.”

Then Winston, for the first time in quite a few con­frontations, uncrossed his arms. “I think I can live with that.”

It was as they headed back for the castle to prepare the exodus, that Okoya leaned over and whispered into Dillon’s ear. “Well done,” he said. “Everything’s ex­actly where we want it.”

Dillon couldn’t help but wonder what Okoya meant by “we.”

PART IV - A PLUMMET OF ANGELS

17. Gamblers And Other Sharks

A black glass pyramid roasted in the desert sun.

From a clear sky, clouds began to fold out from a point in space directly above the pyramid. The many people wandering this end of the Las Vegas Strip took quick notice, wondering where the clouds had come from, and how they had grown so quickly. Then a sin­gle bolt of lightning exploded from the sky, striking the very peak of the pyramid, knocking out its elec­tricity.

Inside Luxor’s casino, the brightly lit gambling ta­bles were plunged into darkness, and although the backup generator should have come on, it didn’t. At the card tables, the dealers stopped their hands in mid-deal. At the roulette tables, the croupiers covered the house chips to make sure none were stolen during the blackout.

One particular croupier stood behind his roulette ta­ble in the darkness, yelling, “Nobody panic”—although he was more panicked than the gamblers surrounding him.

Then suddenly, the lights came back on . . . and standing directly before him, staring in his eyes, was a young man with red hair.

The kid was either underage to be in a casino, or a young eighteen, and around him stood four others. Like the redheaded kid, they were all dressed in shimmering gold silk shirts, and spotless white jeans—and had ap­ peared out of nowhere while the casino was dark. They all wore the faintest hint of a smile, as they looked directly into the roulette croupier’s eyes, as if they knew something he didn’t. It was unnerving, and he had to look away.

In a moment, the gambling resumed.

“Place your bets!” the croupier called out. He pushed the wheel, giving it a faster spin, and took the small, white ball in his hand. Various gamblers around the table stacked their chips around the velvet betting board. The redheaded teen and his friends only watched, as he released the ball. The ball hugged the rim, fell toward the wheel, skipped a bit, and landed in a green pocket.

Double zero.

Moans were heard around the table. No one had bet it. Few people ever did. The croupier raked in the chips, clearing the board for the next wager.

Still the redheaded kid and his friends only watched, but now the croupier thought he felt a strange aura, like heat at the edge of a fire. And then, there was the breeze—not just the hotel air-conditioning, but a breeze that seemed to pull down cigarette smoke from the high atrium above, and send it swirling in an eddy around the table.

“Place your bets!” he said again. He was sure it was just his imagination.

Bets were placed randomly around the table. Square bets, street bets, columns and lines. The redheaded boy and his friends did not wager. The croupier released the ball, it spun around, then bounced in and out of numbers, and found its pocket.

Single zero.

Moans from around the table. No one had bet it. Few people ever did.

Now that strange aura began to pulsate, as it grew stronger—and it wasn’t just him. He could see some gamblers around the table, as well, beginning to loosen their collars. The croupier raked in the chips, and took a deep breath to try to chase away the strange feeling. “Place your bets!” he said.

And this time, the redheaded boy pulled a five-dollar chip from his pocket. He placed it on number one. When all bets had been placed, the croupier released the ball, it spun around the lip of the roulette wheel, and fell out of orbit, landing in number one. The kid had won.

The croupier raised his eyebrows. “You must be lucky. First time playing?’’

“Yes,” said the redheaded kid. The croupier gave him his winnings, and the boy said, “Let it all ride—this time on number two.”

The swirling breeze around the table was getting denser. The croupier could feel it on the hairs on his forearm. It was more than just that, though, for as he looked on his forearm, he could see the curly hairs there begin to grow thicker, denser, as if they were growing at an unnatural speed. And there was that bald man in the corner. Was it just his imagination, or was that man not quite as bald as he had been just a few minutes ago? What was all this about?

The croupier gave the ball a spin. It orbited four times, and dropped squarely into a pocket.

Number two.

Exclamations of surprise echoed around the table, but not from the boy and his friends. It seemed as though they were expecting to win. The croupier felt the pulsating feeling grow as he gave the boy his win­nings, like a presence that was pushing on him, press­ing on his heart and lungs, until he could feel his heart and breath match the steady rhythm of that strange pulse. . . . And yet, he realized, it wasn’t a bad feeling at all. It felt good in some odd way. He felt good, although he couldn’t say why. This time he returned the young man’s smile when the young man said, “Let it ride on number three.”

By now a small crowd had begun to gather around the table—the kind that always gathers around a win­ning streak. But more people than usual were gravitat­ing toward this unusual sequence of events. The croupier let the