It happened at a Gathering.

Gatherings were the weekly festivals of music and dancing the slaves were allowed to partic.i.p.ate in. They were spectacles of debauchery. The slaves fought and f.u.c.ked in a frenzied burst of revelry the likes of which even New Orleans had never seen. People died. Buildings collapsed. Babies were conceived. It all served a larger purpose, of course-to further pacify the herds. The distractions of inebriation and internal conflict effectively stifled any possibility of revolt.

But Lazarus changed the tenor of the Gatherings.

They became opportunities to hear the charismatic man discourse at length on varied topics. He talked about the world they'd known. The world beyond this place. Its wars and history of petty conflict. He talked about men and women of rare courage. People who had been willing to take a stand during difficult times.

He was a learned, erudite man.

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And a dangerous one.

Enter a slave who called himself Kansas.

The a.s.sa.s.sin.

His target didn't suspect anything until he was crumpled on the ground with a knife in his chest. The guards moved in and whisked him away. A guard then shot Kansas in the face, and the dead Judas was carried off to the tunnels by a shapeshifter.

The slaves were too stunned by the events to riot, their grief was too enormous. A long period of mourning ensued, and Gatherings were never quite the same.

Sometimes, however, there's more to the picture than what's seen on the surface.

One of Giselle's confederates was a high-ranking guard. He a.s.sumed responsibility for the disposal of the old singer's body, a detail no one else wanted. A cursory check of the body revealed a faint pulse. The guard summoned a slave who'd been a nurse Above. She tended to Lazarus as best she could, using the meager supplies available to perform miracles. The wound, though deep and ragged, had managed to miss anything vital.

Lazarus survived.

The nurse's name was Cindy.

Rumors of the old man's survival circulated Below. There were occasional "sightings." Most of these were bogus, but on occasion a slave would glimpse a man who looked very much like a disguised Lazarus being escorted place to place by a grim-faced cadre of protectors. So began the myth of Lazarus. It was at this point that his more devout followers began to ascribe Christ-like attributes to the man.

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He was a savior, these people said.

And one day he would arise again.

The Overlords scoffed.

Giselle was unable to suppress another smile.

It would happen.

She blinked through another portal, laid a hand on the coa.r.s.e stone- But this was not stone.

It was drywall. Plaster covered with dry paint. Which meant the room on the other side of this wall was in use for discipline purposes. Giselle closed her eyes, leaned her head against the wall, and let her mind see what was happening on the other side.

She flinched.

Ms. Wickman.

The ruthless, despicable woman was The Master's most exalted-and most trusted-servant. She was cruel in ways the other apprentices could never equal. Giselle was capable of cruelty herself. It was a job requirement for the apprentices. She had killed people. Tortured them. Made them do awful things to themselves and people they cared about. But it all served a higher purpose. She did what she did to keep working behind the scenes, to see to it that she and her allies accomplished the momentous thing they'd worked toward for years.

Ms. Wickman, however, enjoyed hurting people.

Just as she was hurting the women in this room. Giselle saw a nude, teary-faced black woman tied to the bed. A drooling shapeshifter hovered over her. Another girl, also nude, was on her hands and knees on the floor. She was Asian. Her body was laced with lash marks. A smiling Ms.

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Wickman watched her from a bedside perch. She sat next to the black woman, a straight razor at her throat. Another apprentice, a black-clad man with wavy dark hair, stood over the Asian girl, a broadax propped over his shoulder.

Giselle felt a surge of compa.s.sion for the black woman.

Ms. Wickman was asking her questions no one should ever have to answer.

Life-and-death questions.

Giselle knew the women were beyond her help, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the anguish she felt. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Over the years, she'd built a wall against emotions. Survival required a distance, an inner coldness, and she'd cultivated that detachment so well she'd stopped feeling anything. However, now that her plan was finally coming to fruition, that wall was crumbling.

In her mind, she saw Ms. Wickman frown.

And look toward the wall.

Giselle quickly blinked back through the portal, but she could still see Ms. Wickman's penetrating eyes. She blinked rapidly through a succession of portals until she was in the small antechamber behind her own room. She stood on the pedestal where she'd performed the tongue ritual. She rubbed her eyes hard, and the menacing countenance of The Master's top servant was gone.

Which was good.

But Giselle was troubled.

The woman had sensed something. A presence. Giselle believed the woman wasn't as adept as she in the magical arts-only The Master could make that claim-but she clearly had some ability. More than the average apprentice, anyway. Might she have seen who was on the other 266.

side of that wall? Did she, like Giselle, possess the ability to detect the psychic traces people left wherever they went?

Giselle hoped not.

It would mean the woman could follow her to this place.

And everything would be ruined.

She dropped to her knees, closed her eyes, and clasped her hands before her. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she strove to make contact with the G.o.ds. She focused her will, tried visualizations to transport her back to that wondrous realm they inhabited, but there was nothing. Just silence. A heartbreaking void. Giselle felt a ripple of panic. Had they abandoned her?

She tried to calm down.

The problem, of course, was this stew of emotions percolating in her head. It was ruining her concentration, making communication with that other realm impossible. So she drew in a deep breath and imagined the construction of a wall. Brick by brick. Layers of mortar hardening between rows of bricks. She didn't rush the process. The wall slowly took shape, and as it did, the nervous tremors in her body stilled. Her breathing became regular. And she felt the physical world become insubstantial. When she opened her eyes, that world was gone.

She was in the land of the G.o.ds now.

She spoke with her mind: Azaroth, I beseech you.

A swirl of black smoke parted, and a creature resembling an old man in a flowing robe appeared. She understood this wasn't his true appearance. These creatures were composed of a different kind of matter-deity dust, you could call it-and the human eye wasn't equipped to 267.

interpret the reality of the G.o.ds. So an illusion was created. They appeared to humans in a form they could understand. To Giselle, the G.o.d Azaroth looked exactly like a man who'd played Moses in a movie she'd seen long ago.

Azaroth smiled.

You called me?

She returned the smile.

She loved Azaroth.

Yes.

Why?

Giselle's physical body shuddered at the memory of Ms. Wickman's eyes.

I'm afraid I jeopardized everything. I was traveling. Through portals. I saw something in a room. That woman, Ms. Wickman. I'm afraid she saw me. I'm worried she knows what's coming.

The G.o.d's mouth opened.

And a sound as resonant as any oratorio filled her with delight. It was her favorite sound from any world, from any layer of existence.

It was the sound of a G.o.d laughing.

She knows nothing.

"But-" More laughter.

Dear Giselle, you overestimate this harridan. You should be careful of her, yes, but you need not be afraid of her. She possesses some psychic sensitivity, but it is feeble, not worthy of comparison to your extraordinary abilities. And she is loyal to The Master, but not at the expense of her own safety. She will not expend energy saving a sinking ship.

Giselle felt some of that bright edge of fear fade.

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Azaroth sounded so sure of himself.

Well, he always did.

And he was usually right.

Almost always.

Still. But Azaroth sensed her lingering doubts: Giselle, all will be well. The other man from your vision is in place now. You will see him tonight. Be ready.

Yes!

Giselle felt a thrill of exultation.

Eddie in her room.

Chad Below.

Just as she'd seen it so long ago.

She addressed Azaroth: It's really happening, isn't it? We will win.

The G.o.d's answer was encouraging but evasive.

You have an opportunity. The creature you call The Master is weaker than he has ever been. His G.o.ds have turned their backs on him.

So you've told me.

Azaroth continued: He is vulnerable, and the silence of the G.o.ds disturbs him. But you must not underestimate him. He is weakened, but he remains the most powerful living creature on earth. Be careful, Giselle. Be strong. Resolute.

I will!

Azaroth's human guise began to break apart.

Yes, I think you will. And now you must go.

And then the image was gone.

Giselle experienced the usual jolt that accompanied the transition from one plane to the next. She opened her eyes and was back in the antechamber behind her room. She 269.

got to her feet and stepped off the altar. She crossed the room, touched the k.n.o.b that swiveled the wall, and returned to her bedroom.

Eddie, of course, was waiting for her.

He took her into his arms.

Kissed her.

And led her to the bed.

Giselle went eagerly.

She heard the echo of Azaroth's words in her head.

All will be well.

She willed it to be true.

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Dream was dreaming.

In her dream she felt light as a b.u.t.terfly, soaring in the air, flitting from place to place with ease and grace. She flew through clouds, over mountains, buzzed a herd of cattle, and pa.s.sed through an airplane. As she pa.s.sed through the plane, alien thoughts buzzed in her brain. She seemed to exist as many people at once. She was a gay man named Jim. She was a boy named Alexander. She was a teenage girl named Sophia.