Thief of Souls (23 page)

“What about the sick?” asked Dillon. “Tory's going to need to know where they are.”

“None today,” said Nurse Hatchet. “Only wounded.” She offered him a clean white smile, with teeth straighter than they had been yesterday.

Dillon didn't return the smile. He wouldn't force what wasn't there. “What, have we cured all the sick in local hospitals?”

Nurse Hatchet hesitated. “Well . . . yes,” she said. “That, too.”

Dillon turned to her, feeling a fresh pit open in his stomach. “What do you mean ‘too'?” He tried to read a pattern in her face, so he could divine what she meant—but found her strangely void of patterns. Strangely empty.

“To tell you the truth,” she said, “we gave up on hospitals days ago. Too much trouble. Besides—you never know what kind of people you're going to get.”

Dillon stared at her, still not understanding. And so she pointed to a battered man by an overgrown bush. “That particular client is an architect,” she said cheerily. “He'll help us build dormitories when there's no room left in the castle and guest houses.” Then she pointed to a woman in a makeshift neck brace, who gasped every breath of air. “And she's a well-known attorney. With
her
on our side, we can keep the authorities away for as long as we want.”

“What are you telling me?” demanded Dillon.

“Don't you see?” said Nurse Hatchet.
“We made them for you to fix!”

Dillon felt the realization begin to surround his spirit, suffocating him with a truth he couldn't yet face. What this woman was saying was unthinkable.

The woman grinned as if she had just sold a house. “And that's just for starters. We've sent people out to bring you back some special orders. They'll be showing up with some very important clients for you!”

Dillon felt his balance slipping and fell back against the fountain, almost falling in.

Eighty-four “clients” before him. People who had been in the best of health until the Happy Campers broke them, so that the Shards would have people to heal. Here was the reason why nothing they did made a difference! And what was even worse than the ruined people spread out before him were
the hundreds of followers who saw nothing wrong with it.

Dillon could imagine them stealing away in the night, selecting their victims, and brutalizing them in his name: breaking bones, tearing limbs, even killing them—for to the followers of the Shards, pain and death meant nothing anymore. To them, pain was a rite of passage, and death was merely a prelude to a miracle. How could he, of all people, not have seen this coming? That the consequences of healing was to create a bloody cult of sacrifice and resurrection. A surge was building in him now, rising like bile in his throat.

“Well, look at that!” said Nurse Hatchet, grinning at the fountain as if it were a well-trimmed Christmas tree. Dillon's hand had inadvertently touched the water, undoing its random, chaotic spray. Reversing its entropy. Now the fountain flowed backward.

The woman showed her dimples. “My, you're just one big barrel of miracles, aren't you!”

The doors of the castle swung open and the other Shards stepped out, with Okoya close behind.

“Crowded today,” said Okoya, as he looked out over the dead and dying.

“Not a problem,” said Michael, “I'm ready to rock-and-roll.”

Dillon pulled himself together, knowing that he had no choice but to restore the hoards that had been battered for their benefit.

And he told the others nothing, for fear that they wouldn't care.

O
KOYA FOUND
D
ILLON TO
be a maddeningly hard egg to crack—and was already considering all the ways he might destroy this willful, uncompromising star-shard should it
become necessary. It would not be hard to turn the other four against Dillon now, for they had chosen their paths. They were already set against one another, and were growing enamored of their new lifestyles, feeding off their exalted positions, and off their followers. If they perceived Dillon as a threat to that, they could, and would, destroy him. Or perhaps Dillon could be killed by his own followers. Okoya could find a way to reshape the situation, spinning the hordes of followers into a web that would ensnare Dillon, and tear him limb from limb.

But these were only last resorts. He would only need to be destroyed if he turned on Okoya and tried to unite the others against him. Dillon was a most powerful tool, and could be used in a great many inventive ways. With Dillon beneath his thumb, this well-fattened world could easily pass into Okoya's hands, for him to dine on, or do with as he pleased.

And so Okoya waited, keeping his eye open for opportunities . . . until the day the fountain flowed backward, and Dillon discovered the deeds of his own minions.

Later that day, while the other four Shards lounged around the castle, occupied with their own concerns, Okoya climbed the steps to Dillon's chambers, and talked the guard into letting him in, which was fairly easy, as the guard had no soul. Okoya held in his hand a small statuette of a robed figure, carved in pink onyx. Conveniently sized at eight inches, and warm to the touch, the figure was a perfect gift for the Shard who had everything.

Okoya found Dillon in the bathroom—the shower to be exact—sitting fully clothed beneath the running water, like a drunk trying to shock himself sober.

Okoya turned off the stream of water that sprayed into Dillon's face. “If you're trying to drown yourself, you should try one of the pools. They're deeper.”

Dillon didn't move an inch from the corner of the black marble shower. “Thanks for the advice. You can go now.”

“I'm impressed by your melodrama,” Okoya said, “but I have something here that might cheer you up.” Okoya placed the figurine on the narrow edge of the tub, right in front of Dillon. “I found it deep in the basement,” Okoya lied. “Look at the craftsmanship! It might be thousands of years old, and its edges are still smooth.”

Dillon eyed it, studied it, but this statue wasn't meant for his eyes.

“What an incredible story this piece must have to tell,” Okoya teased. “What delicious patterns of history you'll be able to uncover just by touching it.” Okoya sat on the edge of the tub, sliding closer.

“Touch it, Dillon,”
he intoned. “Feel every pattern, every texture in your fingertips. Your hands have given so much to others . . . . Now it's time to take something back . . . .”

Okoya could tell Dillon was drawn to it, and for a moment thought he might seize it and lose himself in sensory overload, savoring the banquet of texture and pattern Okoya had so carefully layered into the figurine's design.

“Take something for yourself, Dillon. You deserve it. You've earned it.”

But instead, Dillon stood, never touching the statue. “If I need to get off,” he said, “I don't need that thing to do it.”

Then he grabbed a towel and left the bathroom.

Even in his frustration, Okoya had to smile. No, Dillon would not be snared by an object of desire—he was far too clever for that. Dillon's ability to size up and sidestep a situation made him dangerously elusive, and all the more desirable a trophy. Okoya took the statuette and it disappeared into his pocket.

In the bedroom, Dillon peeled off his sopping clothes, then
dressed himself, keeping his back to Okoya. It was more a gesture of disdain than modesty.
That's all right,
thought Okoya.
This can be done without friendship. It will just take a bit more effort.

“Do you know what our Happy Campers are doing?” Dillon asked. “Do you know what they've done?”

“I think your followers have been doing you a great service. They're doing everything necessary to make sure the ones you heal will have the greatest possible impact on the world.” Okoya positioned himself between Dillon and the door. “Didn't someone once say, ‘The end justifies the means'?”

“No, it doesn't.” Dillon towel-dried his hair, and stood at the vanity mirror, looking at himself. Looking
through
himself.

“You have a strange way of thinking, Dillon,” said Okoya. “You say you want to repair a shattering world, but you're not willing to take hard action. You might as well be treading water.”

Dillon's eyes suddenly locked on Okoya's, and Okoya suppressed a smile, realizing he had finally pressed a button.

“What would you do if you were me?” asked Dillon.

Okoya paused for a moment, and took a step closer. “If I were you, I'd stop feeling sorry for myself . . . and I would take control.”

“Control of
what
?” snapped Dillon.

“Of
everything
. Control is what you want, isn't it? Control is what you need. Because the only way you'll ever be able to protect the world is if it's entirely under your personal control.”

Dillon sat down, no longer angry, but scared. “That's crazy,” Dillon said. “I can't do that.”

“Oh really?” Okoya began to raise his voice ever so slightly. “How many people were following you three weeks ago?
None! But now that it's started, it's moving faster than you can imagine. There's more than five hundred of them now—and every one of them is waiting for you to use them, but all you do is brush them off.”

“I won't
use
people.”

“It's about time you started.”

Okoya had Dillon's attention now, for the first time since they had arrived at the castle . . . but Dillon's eyes had settled on something in the corner.

It was a glass of water . . . only there was no glass. Just water.

Okoya moved over to the dressing table where the water stood, and leaned against the edge of it, making sure he was in Dillon's line of sight. As he touched the table, it shook slightly. The water vibrated like a column of Jell-O, but still it stayed together, an indivisible whole.

“See how wonder surrounds you,” Okoya poked a finger into the side of the water column, and pulled it out, licking his finger. “
You
are the glue that holds this water together, and your power is growing every day.”

Then Okoya lunged forward, driving his logic deep into Dillon's uncertainty. “If you know patterns so well, look at the pattern around you,” challenged Okoya. “If you took things into your own hands, how long until every person in the world knows your name, and knows what you can do? How long until you become the glue that holds the
entire world
together?”

Dillon was silent as he considered the glassless glass of water. Okoya asked again. “How long?”

“Forty-eight days,” whispered Dillon. “Forty-eight days, twelve hours, and nineteen minutes.”

D
REW
C
AMDEN LIKENED HIS CONDITION TO THE AFTERMATH
of the flu. A weakness in the knees; a lightheaded, uneasy feeling; a sense of nonspecific malaise that accompanied everything he did. It was amazing to him how much there was to adjust to. It seemed almost every aspect of his life was affected. The way he thought, the way he acted, the way he coped with any and every situation, had been carefully woven to accommodate that central strand of his sexuality—but now that that thread had been pulled out, the fabric of his life made no sense. Tasks as simple as turning a doorknob took every last ounce of his concentration, and when he was out among people, the world took on a strange dreamlike tilt. Everything seemed violently new, and potentially dangerous, and his interactions with others were . . . well . . . unsettled.

There was a girl, for instance. He didn't know her name, only that he was deeply attracted to her. He struck up a conversation in the hallway with her—small talk, really, just to get her attention. He was even more surprised than she when he looked down to find his hand deep in his pants, holding himself. He felt shock, mortification, and yet found himself laughing uncontrollably, not knowing why. It was just one in a string of unexpected events that had plagued him since Michael had rewired him.

He had asked Michael about all this, and Michael was unconcerned. “It's just a transition, it'll take some time for you to adjust.”

Michael was, of course, right. Drew would eventually decipher his new neural pathways and discover the person he now was. He just had to weather through this period of discovery.

Thank goodness for the video camera.

As official video-biographer, and Dillon's self-appointed spy, Drew could rely on his job to distract him—a job that put a merciful distance between him and the world that he viewed through the lens. He had recorded quite a few unusual events—definitely videoworthy—and the events only grew stranger day by day.

Today he was busy cataloguing the new backward flow of the fountain, when he caught sight of Okoya following Dillon back to his suite. Drew might have followed, as well, to eavesdrop, and see what conversations went on between these two most unusual of people, but it was the activities of the others that afternoon that pulled his focus—as it had pulled the focus of so many of the followers.

Lourdes was in the ballroom putting on what amounted to a puppet show . . . but her puppets were human. She had taken a whole group of devout followers, and turned them into a kickline, shoulders linked and throwing their legs high up into the air, like the Rockettes themselves. They laughed and laughed, as Lourdes manipulated the muscles of their bodies like a row of marionettes. Lourdes laughed, too, and Drew hadn't been sure whether this show was for the followers' amusement, or for hers. Either way, it looked wonderful on videotape.

“Is it difficult to control the actions of so many people at one time?” Drew asked her.

“Not as long as they're all doing the same thing,” Lourdes answered, indicating the kick-line. “And it's easier when they willingly give their bodies over for me to control. Are you getting all this?”