Shuttered Sky

own innate arrogance that had always gotten them into such trouble. He woke Winston, and they left.

Outside, the sound of voices was a dense, white noise of people murmuring their excitement and confusion.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a Greek Chorus,” Winston said.

The shoreline was packed, and for each one who made it to shore, there were hundreds still stranded on boats in the middle of the bay—so many boats you could hardly see the water.

“Do we really want to go down there?” Winston asked.

“I can’t see as we’ve got a choice.”

They descended the steep slope toward the crowded shore, un­noticed, unquestioned as they moved through the crowds. It was clear to Dillon what was happening here. “Lourdes let them go . . .”

“She must have broken off syntaxis with Tory and Michael.”

Dillon nodded. When she broke off, her field would have gotten smaller. These were the ones who now fell outside of her influence. It would make sense—she only needed an expanded field long enough to get them here. And now, with the bay clotted with vessels, no matter how free these people were, they had nowhere to go. They went from being Lourdes’s captives, to captives of the island itself, and they’d all be here at dawn, when the Vectors tore open the sky.

Of those who had reached the shore, some had climbed up the hillside, toward homes, or the lights of towns around the bay, but most just lingered on the shoreline, sharing with each other the experience of a journey they did not understand.

“The poor bastards—they think they’re waiting for something wonderful. A second coming. The opening of heaven.” Dillon could see the way they trembled with wonder and anticipation. No! Dillon wanted to shout. Get out of this place! Something’s going to happen alright, but it’s not wonderful. It’s more horrible than death—more terrible than the flames of hell. You will see a glow of heaven, you will think it’s something glorious—but they will devour you, for they are the only beings in creation that can kill an immortal soul. He wanted to tell them this, but what good would it do? If they knew, where would they run?

“I feel Lourdes,” Winston said.

Dillon pointed. “Somewhere across the bay.” But there was an­other feeling as well; a dark, visceral stirring. Intuitively, his eyes turned toward the source; a square arch atop a nearby cliff, lit an eerie green and red against the dark sky.

“The Vectors are up there,” Winston said. “That’s where it will begin.”

“If the Vectors are there, then they’re not with Lourdes.” Dillon scoured the shoreline until spotting a small powerboat, and made his way toward it.

“What have you got in mind?”

“I won’t believe Lourdes has turned completely to their side.”

“Believe it,” Winston said. “Even before they got here, she had rotted all the way through. Remember, she threw me overboard.”

“She’s got Michael and Tory—we’ve got no choice but to face her.”

“And if she kills you?”

“If it comes to that,” said Dillon, “I’ll kill her first.” He tried to sound decisive, but still his voice quivered with the thought. They didn’t have Deanna—if Lourdes was too far gone to be brought back—if he was forced to kill her to save himself, and to save Tory and Michael, what would happen then? Would four Shards be able to hold back the sky?

“You go,” Winston said. “I want to get a better look at that arch. Maybe get a closer feel of the Vectors.”

“If they catch you—'

“They won’t.”

“We need to stay together!”

“We need to know what we’re up against!” Winston said. “The Vectors have got to have a weakness—I know I’ll be able to sense it.”

Dillon knew better than to argue with Winston once his mind was made up. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour,” Dillon told him. “Be careful.” Then he started the small motor boat, and took to the water, taking a long look at Winston before he left. Like every parting glance he gave these days, it was laden with finality, as if he might never see Winston again.

* * *

Dillon wove the small motorboat in and out of the logjam of vessels filling the bay. The sea was calm now, the air hung still. Dead air. It was more troubling than a windy sky, because it meant Michael’s emo­tional affect was completely flat. Has he contained himself? No, that was too much to hope for. More than likely he had fallen into a dead sleep the way Dillon had, too exhausted to emote at all.

As he made his way between the overloaded crafts, the sounds of the crowds began to soften until all the voices came from behind him. He looked to the nearby vessels to see that they were just as crowded, but no one moved. People just stood, or sat poised, as if waiting their turn in a halted conversation. He knew he had crossed into Lourdes’s field of control. Bit by bit he crossed to the far side of the bay, where a huge mob pressed inward—an atmosphere of flesh around a hidden singularity. He left the motorboat, and tried to force his way through, but the crowd was defiantly dense. In the end, he had to hurl himself upon their shoulders and stumble over them, until finally tumbling head first into the circle at the center. When he looked up, he saw Lourdes standing there, holding a rock in her fist, ready to throw it at him.

The anger in her eyes almost made him look away, but he didn’t. She was surprised, even shocked, to see him, but in the end she re­gained her composure, and put the rock down.

“I thought you were the Vector,” she said.

He looked around him. A fire burned at the center, casting shifting shadows on the stone faces of her army.

“Why couldn’t I sense you?” she asked. “Did you lose your pow­ers?”

To answer her, he took a glance at the fire, and it began to burn blue, pulling in warmth, rather than releasing it; unburning. “You knew I had to crash this party.”

“The Vectors knew you’d come. I hear they have something very special planned for you. Where’s Winston?”

“Parking the car.” There were two figures on the other side of the fire, but Dillon couldn’t see them clearly.

“Go on,” Lourdes said, deep bitterness in her voice. “They’re wait­ing for you.”

Dillon rounded the fire to find Michael and Tory. They sat up, groggy and weak. Drained. On their hands were handcuffs, but the chains had been broken.

“The rocks here are soft,” Lourdes said. “I almost couldn’t break the chains.”

He thought for a moment that Lourdes might have taken a turn for the better, but the icy expression on her face said otherwise.

“It’s good to see you alive,” Dillon said.

Michael slowly looked up. “Are we?”

Dillon turned to Lourdes again. He had played this moment over in his head a hundred times, so sure he would know the words that would snap her spirit into place, but now, standing before her he had no idea what to say. For all her posturing and poisoned barbs, her actions here spoke louder than her words. She could have killed Mi­chael and Tory, but had not. If that meant there was some hope veiled within her, Dillon had to find a way to access it. He had to plant a seed; a single thought that could take root and attack the battlements she had built around herself. He had once shattered a mighty dam with the tiniest of blows. Surely he could find a way to break through to Lourdes.

“It’s not too late,” was all he could offer her at first, and of course she laughed.

“It was too late the moment I was born,” she told him. “That is, if you believe in fate, and I know you do.”

“Do you remember,” asked Dillon, “when we first met? I mean really met? It was right after you had killed your parasite. You were still fat, but losing pounds by the minute.”