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Only Malik lay awake, half hearing the low drone of the television news. His mind was full of the Dark Watchers and his own churning thoughts. From time to time he would turn to look at Francis.
Francis Specter, the girl who could move through a fourth dimension.
Fr
ancis Specter, the girl who morphed untouched by the Dark Watchers.
Only Francis.
Because Francis was a mistake. Francis was random chance, an anomaly, a freak among freaks.
You’re afraid of her.
Silence.
She wasn’t in the plan, was she?
Silence.
Do you get movies there? Ever see Star Trek? There’s a famous line.
Silence.
Although it was actually from Herman Melville.
Silence.
Would you like to hear it?
Silence.
“To the last, I grapple with thee . . .”
Silence.
Malik, ever-controlled, ever-logical Malik felt something growing inside him. Something built out of the memories of burning men and women; out of clearer, sharper images of Dragon’s fire rolling toward him; the intolerable memories of pain.
Hatred. Rage.
His teeth clenched until they might crack. His hands were fists. Tears welled in his eyes.
“From Hell’s heart, I stab at thee!”
“Do you like it?” Malik spoke aloud. “There’s more. You want the rest? Do you? Do you, you filthy bastards?”
Shade, asleep on the couch, shifted, opened her eyes, and sat up.
“‘For hate’s sake.’” Malik’s voice was a chain saw on metal. “‘For hate’s sake, I spit my last breath at thee!’ Do you like that quote? Do you?”
Shade stood over him. She laid a hand on his quivering shoulder.
Malik sat up. He glared at her defiantly. “Don’t say anything, Shade. I don’t want to hear it.”
Shade moved her hand up his neck, cradling his cheek.
“My God, Shade. My God, what do we do?”
Cruz woke hours later, confused as to where she was. On a bed? How . . . and the memories came like a tidal wave of horror.
