Page 67 of Light

But this time, in this improbable place and this incredible moment, we’ve beaten the bitch. Soundly.

A triumph I share with my woman via the lingering look we lavish on each other.

Just before there’s a commotion near the mound of quake rubble.

And the only person I want to share the victory with more than Emma comes tromping in like an amalgam of Chuck Norris, Chris Hemsworth, and Han Solo’s long-lost blond bastard.

“Ballsy fucker.” I chuckle while striding through the crowd, which has parted like a petrified Red Sea. Instead of attempting a litany of reassurance, I show them Foley’s worth by hauling him into a hearty hug, not holding back on the fierce back slaps.

“Said the crazy-ass pot to the ballsy kettle?” But only Foley’s words are flippant. There’s a fragility to his aura as he looks around, putting on the same brave show as Emma but barely succeeding at keeping his shit tight. “Jesus crapped a fucking load,” he finally rumbles. “This never gets easier.”

“It’s supposed to?”

“Valid point, lightning king.” At once, to my relief, his profile tautens. The Chuck Norris chunk of him wins out for composure. “I just…don’t. Fucking. Understand. It’s here. Right here. How could we have been so off this whole time?”

“Because I told you all that I escaped and finally made it back to Barcelona on foot?”

A gaunt but striking woman, with a bald skull similar to Angelique’s, inches toward us. “And I was taken from a modeling shoot near Milan.”

A man—no, a boy, probably not out of his teens—steps from behind her. His gaze is gilded brilliance. His teeth are gleaming squares. His spun-gold hair stands up vertically from his head. “I was seduced at a rock music festival near Denver. My band had just opened for Arctic Monkeys.”

Others come forward, adding their testaments to the story.

“…on vacation in Greece…”

“…in a field near Stonehenge…”

“…after seeing Hamilton in Puerto Rico…”

“…during BUDS training in Virginia…”

The Consortium hasn’t missed a corner of the globe or a segment of society. Big and small, young and old, every color and ethnicity there is…and yet none of it matters. We’re the mutant version of the Small World ride—except without the laughter, hopes, and smiles parts.

“So how is this all possible?” But there is a golden sun, brilliant and beautiful, tucking herself against my side after giving Foley a ferocious hug. “I’m assuming Faline doesn’t have an actual X-15 conveniently tucked in her back pocket?”

“Which still wouldn’t explain how I got lucky enough to make it out of here and immediately found myself in Sarrià-Sant Gervasi.”

“Bolt-amatic makes a sound point,” Foley comments.

There’s a fresh frisson of tension through Emma’s body. “Unless the witch mastered her portal powers much longer ago than we thought.”

Foley narrows his gaze, shifting to government ghost-man mode. “Or someone else had them locked and loaded first.”

I crunch my scowl tighter. “A partner? But who? And how could all our research have missed that?”

“Not a partner.” The objection is inserted by the young musician with the gold porcupine hair. His gaze matches the radiance of his teeth as he steps over, despite at least three of the others attempting to hold him back. “A slave.”

Just when I thought my gut couldn’t be a worse ball of bile. “Who’s still under her thumb? Now?” I almost issue it all as basic statements instead of questions. The answers are already evident in the fear-sharpened stares across the throng. I acknowledge them with an understanding nod, but it’s truncated. Focusing on my rock-star friend, who seems to be the only one eager to hand over a new plate of Faline’s evil shit pile, is more important at the moment. “And is he…down here somewhere?”

So much for the shit pile. The stuff starts flying, in the form of screams and roars and outcries, as soon as my query leaves my lips.

“Don’t answer him, Alpha Eighty!”

“Don’t you dare show it to him, you showy asswipe!”

“If you do it, we’ll all pay!”

Alpha Eighty whirls around, throwing his arms wide. Webs of fiery energy spread up and down his eye-poppingly ripped arms. “And none of you think we won’t be paying already?”