Abra

John walks through Ted Polmey’s front doors like he owns the building.

Kristy Lee and I follow close behind, both of us breathing hard through our gas masks, both of us carrying enough weapons to start a small war.

I expect Ted’s lobby.

Marble floors.

Expensive art.

Maybe a receptionist who charges people for breathing.

What I don’t expect—

Is a cult.

Because apparently today isn’t weird enough.

They stand exactly where we saw them through the glass.

Twelve of them.

Maybe more.

Hard to count when your brain is busy blaming everything on a concussion.

Men and women in dark suits. Silver pins on their lapels. Cold eyes. Hands folded neatly in front of them.

Corporate.

Professional.

The kind of people who might manage your retirement account before cutting your throat.

Then each one reaches inside a jacket and removes a white porcelain mask.

They place them over their faces at the same time.

Smooth.

Expressionless.

Dead.

Just like that, the corporate lobby becomes a temple.

Weapons appear next.

Pistols.

Knives.

Curved blades.

Hatchets.

Every piece etched with strange symbols that make my eyes hurt when I stare too long.

Beside me, Kristy Lee tightens her grip on her shotgun.

“Gene…”

“I know.”

Then the chanting starts.

Low.

Rhythmic.

Ancient.

Like a bunch of monks got drunk and joined a murder club.

The hair rises along my arms.

One of them raises a blade.

Another points a pistol.

All twelve take a step forward.

John sighs.

Actually sighs.

Like somebody cut in front of him at the grocery store.

He cracks his neck once.

Then his knuckles.

And smiles.

“That’s cute.”

The chanting grows louder.

John tilts his head.

“Nursery rhymes as a war cry.”

He looks back at me.

At Kristy Lee.

Then at the masked lunatics.

“What a bunch of babies.”

Then—

Light.

Not flashlight light.

Not headlights.

Light like the sun gets offended.

The lobby disappears inside it.

My shadow vanishes.

My knees almost buckle.

My teeth hurt.

My skin prickles.

The air smells like rain—

And something older than rain.

John is gone.

Something else stands where he was.

Something massive.

Something winged.

Something made of fire—

And gold—

And judgment.

A name enters my head.

Not spoken.

Placed there.

The Winter Rose.

I’ve seen men on drugs.

I’ve seen men on fire.

I once watched a guy get hit by a dump truck, stand up, and ask if anybody got the license plate.

I have never—

Ever—

Seen a man become light.

Kristy Lee grabs my arm hard enough to pull it from the socket.

“Tell me you see that.”

I swallow.

“Saw what?”

She looks at me.

Then nods.

“Good.”

And then all hell—

Or heaven—

Breaks loose.

The Winter Rose moves.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Just—

Everywhere.

A masked man raises a gun.

The weapon comes apart in his hand.

Not breaks.

Comes apart.

Springs, screws, and pieces of metal scatter across the marble before he flies backward into a pillar.

Another lunges with a curved blade.

The Winter Rose turns.

That’s it.

Just turns.

The woman sails through a glass divider and lands in a row of decorative plants.

Porcelain masks shatter.

Guns fly.

Bodies bounce down staircases.

Marble cracks beneath people who seemed perfectly happy standing upright three seconds ago.

Someone screams in Latin.

I think.

Honestly, I’m too busy trying not to wet myself.

I’ve seen violence.

I’ve caused more than my fair share of it.

But this?

This isn’t violence.

This is judgment.

Less than ten seconds later, it’s over.

Silence.

Dust.

Broken glass.

Groaning.

Nobody dead that I can tell.

They probably wish they were.

And John—

Just John—

Stands in the center of the lobby in his wrinkled white shirt and dark slacks like he’s finished paying a parking ticket.

Kristy Lee and I take the exact same step backward.

Then another.

John looks at us.

“What?”

I point at him.

Open my mouth.

Close it.

Point again.

Still nothing.

John smiles.

“An allowance.”

I finally find my voice.

“What was that?”

“An allowance.”

“Yeah, I heard the word. An allowance from who?”

John glances upward.

“For this moment.”

I follow his eyes.

Nothing up there but a cracked ceiling and an expensive light fixture hanging by one wire.

I look back at him.

“That did not clear anything up.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

John heads toward the elevator.

The doors open with a soft ding.

Kristy Lee and I carefully follow him inside while keeping as much distance between ourselves and John as humanly possible.

John stands in the center.

Calm.

Hands folded.

Like he didn’t just turn into the wrath of God and use twelve cultists to remodel a lobby.

The doors slide shut.

For a moment, nobody says anything.

Soft piano music fills the silence.

I recognize the melody immediately.

Paradise City.

Of course.

Because apparently Ted Polmey thinks irony is classy.

Kristy Lee slowly removes her gas mask.

I remove mine.

Neither of us takes our eyes off John.

Then Kristy Lee’s hand finds mine.

No warning.

No asking.

I realize two things at once.

She’s scared.

And for the first time since this whole insane day started—

So am I.

I clear my throat.

My voice cracks in a way I’ll deny in court.

“So…”

John watches the floor numbers.

“So?”

I swallow.

“You’re, like… an angel from heaven or something?”

John smiles.

Tiny.

Dry.

Without looking at me, he says, “Well…”

He glances sideways.

“I’m sure not from hell.”

Kristy Lee makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a panic attack.

The elevator stops.

A keypad lights up.

AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY

PENTHOUSE

John steps forward.

“Allow me.”

He waves one hand over the keypad.

The screen flickers.

ACCESS GRANTED

The elevator begins climbing again.

Higher.

Higher.

Higher.

My heart pounds harder with every floor.

Kristy Lee’s hand stays in mine.

I don’t let go.

Then—

Ding.

The doors slide open.

Nobody moves.

John remains inside the elevator.

Hands folded.

Calm.

Watching.

I look at him.

“You coming?”

“My allowance was for the door.”

He looks into the penthouse.

Then back at me.

“This part belongs to you.”

I don’t feel ready.

I don’t feel brave.

I definitely don’t feel heroic.

But I step out anyway.

Kristy Lee comes with me.

Together we walk straight into Ted Polmey’s idea of paradise.

Shangri-La.

It looks like a casino’s idea of Shangri-La exploded inside a billionaire’s wet dream.

Red silk.

Black lacquer.

Golden dragons.

Paper lanterns.

Carved screens.

Bonsai trees.

Statues.

Paintings.

Money everywhere.

Three countries represented.

Maybe four.

None consulted.

And not one ounce of class.

Then a woman steps from the shadows.

Long dark hair.

Bare feet.

White dress.

For one terrifying second, every sound in the penthouse disappears.

Sirens.

Gunfire.

My breathing.

Gone.

My gun rises on instinct.

“Whoa—”

The woman looks directly at me.

Smiles softly.

“Gene.”

My finger comes off the trigger.

My shoulders loosen.

My heart—

Traitor that it is—

Recognizes her before my brain does.

The gun lowers.

I don’t lower it.

My body does.

I take a step toward her.

Kristy Lee catches my sleeve.

Hard.

“Gene.”

I look back at her, almost confused she’s still there.

Her face has gone pale.

“That’s her,” she says. “The woman from the bridge.”

Fear fills her eyes.

Something else too.

Something wounded that disappears before I can understand it.

The woman smiles at us.

“My name is Rachel.”

My world tilts.

Then—

Slow clapping.

From deeper inside the penthouse.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

I smell cigar smoke before I see him.

Ted Polmey steps into the light wearing a suit expensive enough to feed half the Village.

Gun in one hand.

Cigar in the other.

Smiling like Satan finally found decent tailoring.

Smoke from the streets drifts through the open terrace doors behind him. Sirens wail somewhere far below.

Ted looks at the city.

Then at me.

Then laughs.

“Well, kid…”

He motions toward the chaos outside.

“I’ve got to hand it to you.”

His smile widens.

“You should’ve brought this plan to me first.”

He looks down at the city again.

“We could’ve made a fortune today.”

His gun rises.

“Too bad.”

He shrugs.

“I always liked you.”

Then—

From the far side of the penthouse—

A woman’s voice.

Soft.

Playful.

Dead.

“Did you always like me…”

Silence.

Ted goes white.

The gun trembles in his hand.

A woman steps from behind a red silk divider.

Wild red hair.

Roses and doves winding down her left arm.

Long artist’s fingers resting against the silk.

Right pinky crooked just enough for me to recognize it.

Ginger smiles at her father.

“…Daddy?”

And for the first time that day—

Ted Polmey looks afraid.