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It started as a whisper, a faint and faraway call. And with each percussion the sound lengthened, heightened, grew.
help.
Help.
HELP.
HELP.
The voice was masculine. It was one sound and many, a singular cry and a million voices. That was probably the “depth” Winston had mentioned.
“Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,” Mallory murmured, as we stared at the thrumming orb.
HELLO. HELP ME.
The volume was huge, as if the sound was a room that had suddenly enclosed us, sucking out the air and leaving behind only the fear, the terror. It wasn’t just a cry, but a demand for attention. Not just a plea, but an order.
This was panic and anger and frustration and grief, a cocktail of hopelessness. And it wasn’t the kind of emotion that dulled the senses but the kind that heightened them. The kind that made every noise seem a timpani drum, every caress a blinding burn. Irritation began to itch under my skin, the emotion weighted with despair.
This had to be what the delusional had been hearing. Little wonder they’d been terrified, Winston and the others. Little wonder they’d begged for help, and had considered death to stop the pain.
“They weren’t delusional,” Catcher quietly whispered. “Not even close.”
“Hello,” Mallory said to the orb. “We are here in Chicago with you. Where are you? How can we help?”
HELLO. HELP ME.
“It sounds like a recording,” Ethan quietly said. “Just reflected thoughts.”
HELP ME. HELLO. HELP ME. HELLO. HELP ME. HELLO.
The words became faster, seemed more insistent, as if they carried more emotional push—and more magical baggage.
“We’re here,” Mallory said. “Can you tell us where you are? Can you tell us how to help you?”
Silence.
I AM . . .
The orb throbbed with each word.
I AM . . .
“It’s sentient,” Mallory quietly said.
“That’s not possible,” Ethan quietly said. “Latent magic isn’t alive.”
The magic disagreed. I AM! it screamed, loud enough that we clamped our hands over our ears.
I AM! The orb exploded, shooting the silver platter into the air.
Ethan threw an arm over me, pushed me to the ground as magic splintered the air around us. The concussion of sound echoed across the bandstand, back and forth across the buildings near us like a bomb.
And then, just as suddenly as the explosion had happened, the world became quiet again.
We sat up cautiously, looked around us. The orb was gone, and with it the platter and rosemary. And there was a hole in the middle of the blanket, the edges still marked by smoking char.
“Dibs on not telling Helen about the platter,” I said quickly, before Ethan could object.
