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She laughed like he'd threatened her with nothing greater than a snowball fight, saying, "Not for seven days," when she finally collected herself.
Fury spun through him. Curls of red smoke wreathed his hands and arms. He was achingly tempted to teach her a lesson, despite the blood oath he'd taken to bind himself to her service. He did not tolerate being laughed at. "I don't see the humor."
"That's because, as usual, you think you're all that and a bag of chips. Do you ever get tired of worshipping yourself?"
"I see no reason to pretend I am less than I am."
"You also see no reason to think you could possibly be wrong about anything or anyone. How's that been working out for you, by the way? Been enjoying your vacation in the great white beyond?"
Shoftiel's rage exploded the windows of the vehicle. A gust of chill wind rushed through.
"Oops, did I touch a nerve?"
Shoftiel snarled, summoning the glass back and fixing the damage. He did not lose control. "Very well. Suppose you tell me why I should fear your anger?"
"Because I'm not stupid, though you obviously think that I am."
He did not. He'd spied on her and her coven enough to know the witch was devious. The fact that she'd created Max and earned the faith of two angels only proved her strength and capability.
"Perhaps you should enlighten me."
"I don't know. Might be fun to surprise you."
She was toying with him. "Explain," he demanded again.
"There you go, snapping orders again." She shook her head. "I guess you and old dogs have a lot in common. All right. I'll play. I'm not so stupid as to release you from the Mistlands without the ability to protect myself and my covenstead from you. The 'how' of that I'll leave for you to find out on your own. As for what you missed in the last few years, the short answer is, a lot.
"You were here when the Guardians dumped magic into the world to cull humanity and bring magic-kin back into the world. They figured if they didn't get rid of a lot of the human infestation, they'd be right back where they started in nothing flat, since humans have a knack for doing things that null out magic. What you missed is that it didn't work. The cities didn't suffer much and a lot more humans survived than expected. The Guardians hadn't realized how much the metal infrastructures of cities and industrial areas would resist the flood of wild magic.
" 'If a little doesn't work, then use a lot more' seemed to be their motto. The Guardians let loose another deluge. That was probably a year or so after you went back into the Mistlands. When that didn't work any better than the first time, they went another route and forced a war between magic-kin and humans. Some of us chose the human side. Anyway, the fighting went on for a year, and then stopped cold. The Guardians stood down, the magic-kin went home. No one knows why, but now there's a truce between magic-kin and the cities, and the Guardians have backed off. The earth is pretty much saturated with magic, and we get these storms every so often that twist things up again. When that happens, a lot of people evacuate to the cities, including a lot of magic-kin. Since we need humans and they need us, we protect each other."
Shoftiel sat silent, absorbing the information. The miles reeled away. He stared out the window, as fascinated as a blind man newly cured. He hated the Mistlands. There was no worse hell. He should know. He was one of seven angels of punishment--the Malake Habbalah--doling out punishments to those who deserved it.
Unless they were wrong.
His lip curled at the unfamiliar doubt that knifed through him. He had twice proven fallible in his judgments. How many more mistakes could be laid at his door? Injustices he'd committed?
Unfamiliar doubt sank into him and nothing he did drove it away.
They'd driven up into a row of spongy brown and white hills. Their pebbly surfaces were slick with a yellow syrupy substance. Orange moss grew thickly in the creases between. On the other side of the hummocks, the land dropped deeply down into a vast plain. A black ocean spread as far as he could see to the west. It narrowed and thinned into a long dogleg going eastward. Small hummocks and islands broke the matte surface.
"That used to be the Great Salt Lake," Giselle said, braking to gaze out over the vista. "It's a tar bog now. Runs from Salt Lake City over there"--she pointed--"nearly to Nevada over there. Still stinks like an outhouse in August, too."
As they descended, they began to see other travelers heading for what appeared to be a road bridging the tar bog. Or so he assumed. He couldn't see the far side. Some came in wagons hauled by animals or in cars or trucks. Others came on a spectrum of pedaled bikes, or in strangely shaped floating balloons. There were also flying contraptions and winged creatures, plus the unlucky who were forced to go on foot.
"What's on the other end?"
For once the witch gave him a better-than-terse answer. "A city of sorts. Not a lot of permanent structures. People come from all over the west to trade, buy, and sell whatever they've got. There's also a kind of shrine there. Some people go there looking for miracles."
"Do they find them?"
"They find something."
"That's cryptic."
"It's a cryptic kind of place," she said. "You'll see soon."
"This thing you plan to steal--it's here?"
