Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
I hear myself screaming as the threads make their way deeper, and deeper into my tissues.
The world goes black.
But this is exactly how I need it to happen.
Because while Tyse Saarinen lies on the table, writhing in pain, I get up. Sit right up. And when I look down at myself, I’m empty again. Just an outline of blue glow.
A traveler. One who slips between worlds.
I see them all, all at once. Layers upon layers of worlds.
We’re underground, so again, there are limits here. Some worlds are just rock. But there are plenty that aren’t. That have trains or underground facilities. No monks, not like last time. No Spark Source. But there are men. Groups of them running some kind of heavy machinery in some unknown world.
I float down to one, and settle beside him inside the cab of the excavator. And then, with one touch, he unspools. All his little threads of spark float into me. Filling me back up.
I do this many times. Dozens. I take everyone’s spark I can find.
And then, I float up, and up, and up.
Until I am back in Epsilon’s Factory city, inside the lab where Clara is strapped to a wall with a harvesting cage pressed against her body, and I kiss her. Unspooling myself.
I give it all back.
Then I pull away, looking at her sweet face as the color comes back. Her glow returns. Her spark lights up inside her. And I give her my vow. “I will kill everything in this universe to save you Clara Birch. God or human, it won’t matter. They will not take you from me.”
And then, spent from the unspooling that happened here as well as the threading going on in the next room, I simply… disappear.
When I wake up, I’m still on the table, but the threads have been taken out and the cage is hovering above me.
A slow clapping fills the space. “Well done, Mr. Saarinen. Well, done.”
I sit up, find Epsilon leaning against the far wall, and look down at myself. “What did you do to me?”
“Well, we need to find out, don’t we?”
“No. Where’s Clara?”
“She’s fine. Filled herself right back up, just like she said. I’ve given her the day off. It’s a fight day, after all. I figured she’d want to watch.”
“What?”
Epsilon snaps his fingers and suddenly, a group of mutant augments have me by the arms and legs. They lift me up, high above their heads, and carry me out of the lab.
That’s when I hear it.
Epsilon! Epsilon! Epsilon!
The chanting.
“It’s fight time!” Epsilon’s words boom through the arena as I’m carried in and the crowd of mutant men goes wild, making the whole place shake.
We are on some kind of platform now. It ascends, taking us up, up, up. It stops with a jolt and all the hands release me, so my back slams hard onto the cold metal surface.
I’m naked, save for a pair of military-issue boxer shorts. And Epsilon’s voice is once again booming through the speakers. But from this high up, it’s distorted, so I can’t actually understand what he’s saying.
What I do hear is the screaming from above. And when I look up, here they come. A horde—dozens of mutant augments spill out of the ceiling. Clambering down ropes. Sliding off scaffolding. Dropping from poles.
And all of them are after me.
“Finish him!” Epsilon booms.
Filled with spark, though—and not just any spark, but Clara’s spark—I am… much, much more than just another one of Epsilon’s experiments.
They fall like dying stars, their light stolen before it can burn.
I take them apart, unmake them, return them to dust.
And all the while, I am walking. Hunting. Searching for spark.
Because when this is over, once again, she will be dying.
And I will need more.
33 - CLARA
Everywhere, there are fluttering blue butterflies. The spark radiates off them like heat.
“So… what do you think?” The haughty Little Sister—the arrogant one who rolled her eyes at me while she was having her first tour of the Maiden Tower—spins, twirling the skirt of her short dress.
“What is this fabric?” I ask. Reaching for the paper-thin silk that makes up her bell sleeves. It’s not any silk I’ve ever worn. It’s sheer, and shimmery, and soft.
“Don’t you just adore it? It’s called organza.” Then Jasina laughs. One of those ‘ha-ha’ laughs that sometimes bursts out of people when they’re in the middle of a moment of pure joy. “Can you believe this weave? I need to find a supplier—I’ll make us dozens of dresses! But what about the length? Do you like the style?”
“I love it! Absolutely. Shows off your legs.”
I blink. What?
Then, Tyse is whispering in my ear. “You’re all right. You’re OK, Clara. You’re fine.”
This is when I realize I’ve been dreaming, my whole body is covered in sweat, and I’m no longer strapped to a wall. “How…” But I feel too weak to think. My throat too dry to speak.