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The agent took a step forward. Will tossed the handful of ash into the man’s eyes. Adams howled in rage and pain. In the space of the three seconds it took for William Fitzgerald to bolt across the library’s Persian rug toward the half-open doors, the futility of his situation welled up inside him in a way that nearly resembled hope in its giddy freedom. He was alive as he had not been in some time. All his nerve endings burned with life, as if discharging their last impulses. His mind whirred with memory. He thought of the first time he saw Evie in this room, like a ray of rogue sun forcing itself through the gloom, as he lectured to schoolboys about America’s supernatural past. He thought of studious, quiet Jericho sitting at the table with his books and cocksure Sam creeping around, always looking for an angle to work. He thought of Memphis Campbell’s poetic, shining soul and Isaiah Campbell’s unbridled optimism and of their frightened, determined faces as he’d lowered the cellar door, and he hoped they were well on their way. He thought of dear, funny Henry and brilliant, straightforward Ling and resilient Theta with her hidden strength—all of them refusing to be pressed under by the world’s thumb. He thought of James and Luther and the wrong he had done them, and he prayed he would know their forgiveness yet. He thought of Margaret, his friend and occasional enemy, but mostly friend, and he hoped fervently that she had heard his warning and had hidden herself. She would be needed in the days to come.
At last, he thought of Rotke’s beaming face in the cold winter sun, her laughter whipping along the wind: Oh, Will, that’s you all over!
Rotke, his love.
Behind him, Adams, blinded by the ash, hissed in pain. Jefferson, recovered from his momentary shock, was in pursuit. Will tipped over the chair behind him, impeding the bigger agent’s progress. Up ahead, the stuffed bear’s dead eyes stared, unseeing, as Jefferson caught Will by the ankle, bringing him down hard, knocking the air from his lungs. Will could not speak or move. He could only lie on his back, looking up, at Jefferson’s furious face as he landed a blow to Will’s jaw, shattering it, then up again at Adams behind Jefferson, tightening the piano wire between his gloved fingers, and finally, up at the painted ceiling where men inked ideals into parchment, a root worker held aloft her mandrake, a host of a
ngels and demons fought on the prairie lands of a new world, and around the mural’s edges, Diviners looked on, watching, waiting and wary and ready.
He hoped, he hoped.
“Any last words?” Adams snarled.
Blood filled Will’s mouth. “Vive la résistance.”
In the stacks, Sister Walker clutched the secret files tightly to her chest and listened to the last dying gasp and gurgle of her friend Will Fitzgerald. Tears stung her eyes. A scream clawed at her throat.
“That’s been a long time coming.” Adams.
“What do we do with him? Torch the place?” Jefferson played with the matchbook in his hand. His eyes gleamed.
Adams shook his head. “Leave him. Let him be found. Someone should pay for this murder, don’t you think?” Adams tsk-tsked. “Those Diviners. They can’t be trusted, you know. Enemies of the state. Perhaps it’s time we let the nation know just how dangerous they are.”
THE TIME IS NOW
The Shadow Man entered the cell like a ghost. “Good evening, Miriam.”
From her chair, Miriam Lubovitch Lloyd registered the man’s odious presence and continued reading her book without comment.
“Whatcha reading?” At Miriam’s silence, the Shadow Man angled his head sideways. “A Geological History of the United States.” He righted himself, chuckling. “Well. You certainly know how to have fun.”
“Why are you here? Is not mealtime. You come to torture me more?”
The Shadow Man frowned. “Persuade. We persuade, Miriam. I’ve come to let you know that, thanks to you, our agents are bringing in one of our lost chicks. Your Sergei is coming home, Miriam.”
Miriam’s split-second joy was doused by anger. “You don’t know the fire you play with. Theirs is not power you can manipulate. It is grown too big for your control. I can feel it.”
“Anything and anyone can be manipulated. Isn’t that right, Miriam?” The Shadow Man’s gloved hand rested on her shoulder. “Besides, we’re not accustomed to losing. We’ll get them in line. We are not afraid of a bunch of uncontrolled, misfit kids.”
Miriam shrugged off his touch. “Aren’t you?”
The Shadow Man sighed like a weary parent. “Miriam—we’re on the same side. You help us, and we’ll see to it that you’re reunited with your son.”
“What will you do to him first?”
“Just a few tests, that’s all. I’m sure he’s a patriot who’d like to do his duty.”
Miriam narrowed her eyes. “Patriot,” she sneered.
“Everybody wants freedom. No one wants to pay for it. Or to think about who has to do the ugly work to secure that freedom,” he said quietly.
Miriam put her book on the table and stood. She was considerably smaller than the man, but on instinct, he took a step back. “You promised me something if I help you. So. I did. I help you. I cannot help Anna anymore,” Miriam said, and watched the Shadow Man grow uncomfortable. “I want to walk. Outside. In fresh air.”
“Now, Miriam. That wouldn’t be wise of us, would it? Keeping you underground keeps a lid on that Diviner power of yours. I still remember when you managed to get that poor secretary to give you a postcard. And then you had her mail it for you, convinced her it was her idea all along.” He tutted.
Miriam kept her eyes trained on the wall. “Could I at least go to the solarium to see the trees?”
They chained her, of course. Iron to contain her gifts. Shackled, she shuffled across the observation deck’s slate floor. Slate was good. Natural. Grounding. She curled her toes against its ancient power. It was a good antidote to the iron. The sun was just setting. The solarium’s tall windows looked out on acres of orange-painted trees, centuries old, and the snow-dusted mountains beyond. There was great power in them, too. But the men didn’t need to know that. Underground, it was much harder for her gifts to travel.
