Cassandra and the Sisterhood
Hope Triumphant II: Sister

Chapter 9

(World population: 7.44 billion)

UNHOLY ALLIANCE I

Saturday Night, 19 July 2014
Watcher HQ, France

"Joseph."

Joe looked up from the pile of papers on his desk to see Rhee standing in the doorway, hunched down into himself somehow, not taking up very much room. "Evening, Rhee."

Rhee didn't smile or return the greeting. "I did not know you were here."

"Em took the kids to see Spiderman IV yet again. So I thought I'd come in and get some work done. You know, last minute things. I've only got two weeks left before the big day!"

"Ah yes. Your retirement ceremony."

"And yours is the month after that. Come on in, my friend!" Joe said, beckoning with one hand. "Pull up a chair. It's late; you must be tired." Rhee sure looked it: thin, sallow, dark bags under his eyes. Good thing they were getting out. Rhee came in and sat down while Joe leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. "What are you doing here on a Saturday night?"

Rhee shrugged. "Home is a quiet place."

"Yeah," Joe muttered. He remembered those kinds of nights—long hours of silence, walls that moved in on you when you weren't looking, the meager meal from the microwave, the lone plate that needed washing. Rhee's wife had passed away last year. "Want a drink?" Joe offered.

"Yes."

Joe got out the vodka from the freezer of his compact refrigerator in the corner of the room. He got himself a beer. Joe settled in the chair by the window and lifted his bottle in a toast. "Cheers!"

Rhee paused, murmured something, then knocked back his drink at one go. "You should go home, Joseph," he said, pouring himself another.

Joe checked the clock on the wall—nine twenty-five. "Pretty soon." But not right away. He wasn't about to leave Rhee like this. The man obviously needed a buddy. They sat, looking out the window at the courtyard below. The gray stone walls looked almost white in the floodlights' glare. A sentry moved from the light into deep shadow and disappeared.

Joe was glad to see that Rhee was taking his second drink slower than the first. They chatted easily about rock climbing and the latest info on who had beheaded who. "Let me drive you home," Joe suggested when their drinks were gone.

"No. Thank you. I am waiting for an overseas call, and I need to be at my desk in an hour. I will wait." He smiled with knowing amusement. "But you, I think, have a curfew and must be home before then."

"Yeah, you're right about that," Joe admitted. It was nearly ten. "Time to go." He put away the papers and secured his office, while Rhee put the vodka back in the fridge and tossed the beer bottle in the recycling bin.

"You all right?" Joe asked at the door.

"I am fine," Rhee said firmly. He smiled, a real smile, the dark eyes creasing at the corners, just the way they used to do, back before he and Joe had been tribunes, back before the bomb. "And thank you. Now go home, my friend."

"I'm on my way," Joe said then remembered an e-mail he'd promised to send. "Damn." He went back to turn on his computer.

"Joseph …," Rhee said in reproach.

"In a minute, in a minute …" Joe sent the message, then checked his mail. One more to answer. And then one more. When Joe finally looked up, Rhee was gone, so Joe downloaded the news. Not much good there.

It was almost ten-thirty before Joe shut down the computer. He went to the elevator in the hall then leaned his head against the box for the retinal scan. When it cheeped OK he punched in the access code. The security computer cheeped again, confirming he had clearance for that floor, then finally opened the damn elevator door. Friedanir, Rhee's second-in-command, had been talking adding about Voice Recognition technology, too. "Why not just make everybody whistle Dixie?" Joe had suggested, then regretted it immediately when a gleam had come into Friedanir's eyes. Too many damn bells and whistles around, Joe thought. It was definitely time to leave.

He had one foot in the elevator when all the lights in the building went out. Even the little red emergency lights near the floor were gone. Joe blinked in the total darkness. There'd been a few brownouts and even a blackout or two in the city in the last couple of years, but Watcher HQ had its own generators. Several of them. In several different places on the grounds. They couldn't all have gone bad, just like that.

Which meant that something was very wrong. Joe took out his phone and punched in Rhee's code. It was answered after the first ring. "Hey, Rhee," he said, speaking softly.

"Yes, Joseph?"

"The power's out on the second floor of HQ."

"You are still here?" Rhee said, sounding shocked.

"Yeah, I had some mail, so—"

"Where are you?" Rhee interrupted.

"Standing in front of the elevator near my office."

"Do not move," came the quick command. "I am on my way to escort you out."

"But—" Too late. Joe was talking to a dead phone. Rhee hadn't sounded surprised about the lights; the power was probably out on his floor, too. He hadn't sounded worried, either; maybe this was some kind of security drill. Joe shrugged, then called home and left a message, telling Em he might be a little bit late. He had just put the phone back in his pocket when the sound of gunfire erupted outside.

Joe hit the deck.

"Damn," he muttered, flat on the floor with his nose in the rug, breathing in the stale smell of "carpet freshener." This was one hell of a security drill. Those rounds had sounded live, just like the MP-5s Joe had heard last month on a visit with Rhee to the training grounds.

Joe had just gotten to his feet when he heard the shuffle of footsteps on the carpeted floor. "Joseph," Rhee's voice said out of the darkness, off to Joe's right, near the stairs.

"Rhee," Joe replied, keeping his voice low. "How the hell can you see where you're going?"

"Night vision goggles." The voice was closer now.

"You keep those at your desk?"

"Always. I have a gas mask, too."

Paranoia was a wonderful thing. "What the hell is going on out there?" Another quick burst of gunfire sounded in the courtyard outside, followed by a hoarse yell of command. Spanish maybe, Joe wasn't sure. "Damn, Rhee, I know I said 'Show, don't tell' to convince the council, but isn't staging this kind of thing overkill?"

Rhee had reached him now. Joe felt a light touch on his arm, heard the quick breathing of the other man. He could almost make out the shadow of a figure next to him. Rhee's words were barely audible. "Joseph … this is not a drill."

"What?"

"Those are not my men. We are under attack."

"Jesus," Joe half-prayed and half-swore, automatically turning to look out the window, then thinking the better of it and flattening himself against a wall. Besides, it was too dark to see anything anyway. He listened, heard nothing, not right now. "Government?"

The sound of a single shot was followed by a gurgling scream, muffled by the intervening walls. "Doubtful," came Rhee's dry reply. "It seems they are not taking prisoners."

"An Immortal," Joe guessed sourly. "Like you said: one of them decided to eliminate the evidence and silence us—permanently." A window shattered somewhere on the other side of the building. Rhee put a hand on Joe's elbow and started guiding him down the hall, away from the elevator. "You brought me a gun, right?" Joe asked.

"Yes." Rhee pressed the cold metal into his hand; Joe closed his fingers around the grip, taking comfort in the solid feel of it. "But it is for defense only. You and I must leave."

"Leave?" Joe stopped where he was, planting his cane. "What about the Chronicles? If an Immortal gets those—"

"Then he will hunt and find other Immortals, just as they already do now. Besides, we have our own copies at the ten Watcher schools, thanks to you. But if an Immortal gets us … From the reports coming in, there are at least thirty attackers, Joseph, and tribunes make valuable prisoners, especially you and I. We know too much."

"So we run?" Joe said in disgust. The gun had already grown warmer in his tight grasp. "I'm at least taking a couple of them out first."

"First?" Rhee said, impatience adding bite to his sarcasm, angry words hissed in the dark. "And second? Will you run and hide after you've revealed our position by shooting? Will you leap across a stairwell in the dark?"

Joe felt his grip tighten even more with rage. "That's—"

"I am sorry, Joseph," Rhee interrupted then sighed. "But—"

"But I'm not exactly quick on my feet," Joe finished for him, cursing for about the nine millionth time the land mine that had exploded underneath his feet and blasted his legs, all those years ago. Rhee was right, damn it. Rhee was right.

"We are old men, you and I. The Guard is trained for this. They die to save us, to save the Watchers." His voice was fast and low, agonized. "We cannot waste their lives." Rhee's hand was bruisingly tight on Joe's arm. "Hurry!"

Joe swore but went. Rhee was on his left, guiding him again. Joe's right shoulder brushed up every now and then against the wall. Too bad Rhee hadn't had an extra set of NVGs along with the extra gun. Joe hated being blind. "Where are we going?" Joe asked, keeping his voice low as they turned a corner.

"Service shaft," Rhee whispered back, going faster. The gunfire was inside the building now, on the first floor. There were more screams, louder now, then a door slammed somewhere above them.

Booted footsteps came up the stairs. A man's voice, possibly Australian, called, "Start taking prisoners! There's a tribune's car parked outside; orders are to take them alive." The footsteps kept climbing and disappeared.

"Jesus," Joe muttered again and hurried along. "You've called for reinforcements, right?" The guardsmen couldn't call; after one fellow had been caught chatting with his girlfriend, cellphones had been forbidden on duty. They used handheld radios instead.

"Of course," Rhee said impatiently. "Friedanir knows. But it will take time for him and the others to arrive. Time we don't have." A moment later Rhee let go of Joe's arm. Metal squealed and then came a clanging sound, quickly dampened. The heartfelt curse in Korean that followed was hotter than kimchee. Joe froze in the darkness, not breathing, sensing that Rhee had frozen too.

No one came down the hall to investigate, and after a moment, Rhee started moving again. A rustle, a clink, and a soft scraping of rope. Joe knew the sounds well from many afternoons at the climbing wall in the gym. Rhee was tying a knot. "Don't tell me you keep climbing gear in your desk, too," Joe said incredulously. He could have sworn he heard Rhee smile.

"No. The gear was in my gym bag." Rhee gave clipped instructions as the knot-tying and rigging went on. "The shaft is 17 meters long, with a bend to the right two-thirds down. At the bottom of the shaft, you will find an electric torch, water, and food. Follow the tunnel for 1.3 kilometers. There are no side exits."

"I never heard about this tunnel before," Joe said, his anger at his helplessness turning the words into an accusation.

"Need to know," Rhee replied with no apology, and after a moment Joe grunted in assent. "The tunnel opens in the cellar of a house," Rhee explained.

"Whose house?"

"One of ours." Metal clinked as the carabiner rings were locked in place. More noise came from above: an occasional bullet or yell, scraping sounds, repeated echoing thumps and booms. "It sounds as if the Guard is blocking the stairways with furniture," Rhee said. "That should delay the attackers for some time."

He sounded sadly proud. Joe reached out and found Rhee's shoulder, gripped there. "They're good men. You trained them well."

"And now they die."

"They're soldiers. They knew the drill when they signed up for the job."

"Yes. And so did we." There came a final click, and Rhee said, "You are first."

"But—"

"I can climb in by myself," Rhee said bluntly. "You can not."

Rhee was right again. Joe tucked the gun into a pocket, then lifted his arms so that Rhee could help buckle the climbing harness on him. Getting in through the hatch was a tight squeeze, and Rhee had to give Joe a fearsome shove. From the burning in his shoulder, Joe figured he'd lost his shirt and at least four layers of skin. He shifted in the harness, getting comfortable, then automatically looked down. He saw nothing but blackness. Well, at least he wouldn't have to worry about fear of heights.

"Go!" Rhee urged, and Joe went, pushing back from the wall with one hand, controlling the speed of his descent with the other. Seven drops at two meters a go, then slower, more carefully, until his feet encountered solid ground. Joe steadied himself, stepped out of the harness, and gave the rope a double tug.

It came showering down around his head, coiling at his feet. Joe looked up, aghast. "Rhee?"

"Good-bye, my friend," came the softly echoing reply. "I will destroy the Chronicles if possible, and die with my men."

"Damn it, Rhee! You can't—"

"Stand back," came the order, and Joe scarcely had time to move before his cane came dropping down. "Get out of the tunnel quickly," Rhee continued. "The explosion may be fierce. Give my fondest regards to your wife and children, Joseph—and give them your love."

"Rhee!"

From far above came a squeal of metal and a clang, hiding the trail of the escape route, and then Rhee was gone.

"Son of a bitch," Joe said, over and over as he felt around for the flashlight Rhee had said would be there. Joe found it near the wall, along with the bottle of water and the food in a small pack. Rhee had everything organized. Everything prepared.

Rhee had deliberately stranded him down here, all the while planning on going back to die.

"You son of a bitch," Joe swore, heedless of the tears on his face, but Rhee's parting words gave Joe the reason why: "Your wife and children, Joseph—give them your love." And don't waste the lives of the Guard—including Rhee.

Joe shouldered the pack, picked up his cane, and started the long walk home.

Rhee was leaving the library when a group of five from the assault force caught him. "Tribune Rhee," their leader greeted him, sounding pleased, then spoke to his men: "Take him to the commander." Rhee found himself being marched between two masked men dressed entirely in black. He made no attempt to escape; his work was complete. Two dead attackers lay in awkward poses on the stairs, red blood looking black on the white marble. Members of the Guard lay sprawled there, too: Pablo, Franz, Pierre.

His captors took him up another flight of stairs and down a long hall. He saw two more bodies of guardsmen on the way. Finally, the shorter of the masked men opened a door and motioned him through. Rhee walked into the tribunal conference room with detached amusement; this meeting should prove to be more decisive than the countless others he had attended here. Their commander arrived a few moments later, a tall lean figure, also masked and in black, rifle in hand.

"Leave," the commander ordered, and the two guards left the room. The commander peeled off the mask, revealing black hair caught in a clip at the nape of the neck, then sat down at the dark expanse of table. An Immortal, Rhee knew, seeing those ancient knowing eyes in a face still unlined.

Rhee sat down then took out a cigarette, pleased that his hands did not tremble. He offered one across the table, got back a shake of the head. "I know," Rhee said, pulling out a matchbook. "These things will kill me." They already had. Six months, the doctor had said. Maybe a year. The diagnosis had made certain decisions easier. Rhee coughed, then lit his cigarette and drew in a welcome breath of nicotine-laced air. He blew it out again, taking great enjoyment in the curls and eddies of the smoke. How beautiful. How intricate.

How deadly. "The attack went as planned," Rhee observed.

"Mostly. The five remaining guards have barricaded themselves on the top floor. I'm not calling in a helicopter attack, and it would take some time to dig them out. Time we don't have."

"True," Rhee agreed. He glanced at the clock on the wall: six minutes after eleven, thirty-four minutes since the attack had begun. This part of the attack, that is. Other parts had begun long before.

Rhee wished there were a window in the conference room. The moon would be rising soon, a silver crescent at the horizon, a waning light. He had always enjoyed watching the moon. "The Chronicles have already been destroyed," Rhee said, wanting the Immortal to know that there would be no loot from this raid.

A shrug was his answer. "I don't need help in the Game." And now the Immortal was pulling out a gun: a Sig-Sauer P226, a military handgun. A container of bullets came next.

All were pushed across the table to him. The condemned man's last request. Rhee took a deep drag on his cigarette then picked up the gun. He loaded it—all fifteen bullets in the magazine, though surely one or two would be enough—removed the safety, then primed the weapon with the slide, so that the fatal round was waiting in the chamber. Then he pointed the gun at the Immortal's head. "I could kill you," Rhee said. It seemed a novel idea.

"You could," came the even reply. "And then my men would kill you, and then I would revive. We'd leave your body here and blow up Watcher Headquarters, just as we planned. What would you gain by killing me?"

"The satisfaction of watching you die," Rhee answered. "The way my men have died tonight." Screaming, bleeding, fighting, desperately brave … Good men all. All dead. All mercifully dead. Rhee didn't want to have to look into any of their eyes.

"I took no satisfaction from that," the Immortal answered.

"And yet … they died."

The words emerged in a soft hiss: "As you planned."

Rhee nodded slowly, looking away. "Yes," he admitted. "As I planned." He had planned it all: seeking out this Immortal eight months ago, handing over complete plans of the defenses, turning off the electricity tonight, asking for his own death—all leading to the utter destruction of Watcher Command and Watcher Headquarters, a destruction so complete, so thorough, that the Watchers would see no option but to go to ground and hide.

And for this plan, for this desperate gamble to save the Watcher Organization in the centuries to come, he had sacrificed his men. A common enough military decision: sacrifice a few to save many. Sixteen Watcher deaths tonight. Mostly unmarried, only two with children. He had seen to that, adjusting the watch schedule these last six months, and he had managed to save Joseph Dawson. He hoped. It was truly unfortunate that this could not have waited until after Joseph's retirement, but certain other events had forced his hand.

The gun felt too heavy now. Rhee put the safety on and pushed it back across the table. As the Immortal prepared the weapon, Rhee reached for his cigarette again. He was watching the smoke curl, dusty blue-gray, when the bullet took him down.

Seventeen Watcher deaths tonight.

REASONABLE DOUBT

Later that night
The Dawson Home

The phone rang at the Dawsons' home at 11:37. Emory rolled over in bed and picked up it right away, ready to give Joe a piece of her mind. She'd tucked Ian and Haylie into bed over an hour ago; Joe should have been home by now.

But the Swedish voice on the phone wasn't Joe's. "May I speak to Joseph Dawson, please?" he asked.

"Who's calling, please?"

"Peter Friedanir. I'm employed by the security division of International Assets Corporation," he answered, using the alias for the Watcher Guard. "I believe we met at the company picnic two months ago, Mrs. Dawson."

"Oh, yes," Emory said, now remembering the tall, thin man. He'd had a fondness for dipping his potato chips in his Coke. What the hell was he doing, calling here at this hour? Emory couldn't wait until Joe finally retired in two weeks and they wouldn't have to deal with these obnoxious late-night calls anymore. None of the Watchers ever seemed to give a moment's consideration to Joe's privacy or personal time.

"May I speak to Mr. Dawson, please?" Friedanir asked again, sounding just as anxious as Ian did whenever he needed to go to the bathroom right now. "It's very important."

Emory sighed. Watcher business always was. Or at least the Watchers thought so. "He's not here," she said.

"Where can I reach him?"

"Try his cellphone." Emory had tried very hard not to snap. She was tired and getting cranky.

"I have," Friedanir said. "There's no answer."

That was odd. Joe almost never turned off his phone. "Then try at work."

It sounded like Friedanir actually gulped. "He's still at work?"

"Either there or on his way home." Emory sat up in bed. What was going on here, anyway?

"Mrs. Dawson …"

Emory did not like the sound of his tone. "Yes?" On the phone, she heard a siren wail somewhere nearby, then hoarse voices shouting.

"Mrs. Dawson …"

"What?" Emory did snap this time.

"There's been … an attack. On the corporate headquarters."

"What do you mean 'an attack'?"

"It looks like …" Friedanir gulped again. "It looks like the building has been bombed."

"No," Emory said automatically. This was unthinkable. "No."

"I'm at the site, Mrs. Dawson. It's burning."

"No," she said again, getting out of bed and going to the window to look in the direction of the "corporate headquarters," otherwise known as Watcher HQ. In the distance, the white haze of city lights had a faint red glow.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Sorry was what you said when someone had died. But Joe wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. "When did the fire start?" Emory demanded. "When?"

"Five minutes ago. I heard the explosion as I was driving here."

And Joe had called home an hour ago. He'd had plenty of time to leave the building. He was fine. His cellphone battery had probably died, which was why he hadn't called. Or maybe he and Rhee were out having a drink and had lost track of time. Maybe he'd heard the explosion and gone back to help. Joe would either call soon or come home. Emory was sure.

"I'll tell him to call you when he gets here," Emory told Friedanir and turned off the phone. She had just sat down on the edge of the bed when the phone rang. Emory snatched it up.

"Mrs. Dawson?" It was Friedanir again.

"Mr. Friedanir, I want to keep this line clear so my husband can call," Emory explained none-too-patiently. And if Joe didn't call home soon, she swore she would club him to death with his cell phone when she saw him again. Damn it. Why didn't he call?

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed. "But before you hang up on me again, you should know that I'm sending security guards to your home."

"Guards? I don't want guards here. They'll scare the children. Why on earth would I want guards in my house?"

"Because you may not be safe where you are. If you don't want the guards, Mrs. Dawson, then I strongly recommend that you and the children move to another location immediately."

For the first time tonight, Peter Friedanir had Emory's undivided attention. "Why?"

"Ten minutes ago, Dr. Kananga was found in his kitchen, shot once in the heart and once in the head."

"The attackers went to his home?" Emory asked quietly, horror stealing over her in the ensuing pause. She got out of bed and went to the closet where Joe kept his gun. "Is Rhee there?" she asked. He would know what was going on. "I want to talk to Rhee." Emory pushed aside the clothes and started turning the dial on the safe.

"Mrs. Dawson …" Friedanir did that hesitating thing again. "Mr. Rhee was on duty tonight. In the building. He called me earlier when—" He choked up, the hesitation a full stop.

Was. He was on duty. "Oh." She took out the gun, then reached up for the locked box of ammunition on the top shelf. Joe wanted the gun easily accessible in case of an emergency; Emory wanted the gun completely inaccessible to the kids. This was their compromise.

"Mrs. Dawson, either you have to leave your house or let the guards in."

Emory dialed in another combination and took the bullets from the box. "I'm going to be here when my husband comes home. Send the guards."

"They're already on their way."

"Tell them to call before they knock on my door or I might shoot them. I'll tell Joe to call you," Emory said again and hung up. She loaded the gun; then she jammed the phone in her back pocket and made a tour through the house, checking each door and window, making sure that both of her children were asleep and not in any immediate danger. The guards arrived and, after a quick introduction, took up their posts: two outside, two inside.

Emory took a seat at the top of the staircase, gun at the ready. Except not too ready, she reminded herself. Shooting Joe would be a big mistake. Not that he didn't deserve it. She sat and waited for the phone to ring again or for the door to open wide.

She was still waiting when the sun rose.

Emory called Demiko, not caring that it was five thirty in the morning. It didn't matter; Demiko was already awake. She already knew. Probably all the Watchers knew by now. "Can you come over and watch the kids?" Emory asked her. "I need to go see—" See the damage? See how bad it was? See what Joe's chances really were? "I need—"

"I'm on my way," Demiko said immediately. When she arrived twenty minutes later, she was carrying cups of hot chocolate and a bag of freshly-baked croissants. "Breakfast," she said, putting a cup and a croissant into Emory's hands.

Emory ate on her way to Watcher HQ. Or what had been Watcher HQ. She parked her car and walked to the tall iron gates in the wall that surrounded the park-like estate. Where once a gracious chateau had stood, there was now a charred heap of blackened stones. Flames leapt into the sky. Black oily smoke roiled in the wind. Her eyes stung. The firefighters were still there, working hard. Police were just inside the gate, keeping people out.

"Have they recovered any bodies yet?" Emory asked a tall policeman, planning on asking about prosthetics; those were distinctive, they would make it easy to tell a body wasn't Joe's …

"They can't get near," he answered. "The fire is still too hot."

Emory swallowed hard and stepped back. She wasn't the only one who had come to see. "That's thermite burning," one spectator informed her, a blond man who looked like he hadn't yet gone home from his bar-hopping the night before. "Teeth may be left when they put the flames out, but nothing else."

Emory sternly ordered herself not to retch.

"Israeli commandos like to use that," he continued, swaggering with all the self-importance of someone in the know. "That's who did this, you know. The corporation was selling arms to the Palestinians, so the Israelis took them out."

His companion, a thin woman with orange hair, looked with disappointment at the rubble. "Last year in Algeria was bigger. They used tanks then, and jets."

"They're careful and efficient," he explained. "And they had more room there. Here, they might have hit the wrong target, so they came in small."

It didn't look small to Emory. She walked over to Peter Friedanir, who was standing with two Watchers at the other side of the gate. "Mrs. Dawson," he greeted her solemnly. The others murmured hello. Emory nodded but didn't feel up to a reply. She turned her back on them to look at the fire, and after a moment they resumed their conversation, speaking in French in low tones.

"An Immortal, do you think?" the female Watcher asked.

"Who else?" That was Friedanir. "Not a government, or there would be arrests, too. Whoever did this wanted the secret protected, not exposed to the public eye."

"But who?"

"Someone with professional military training and resources," Friedanir answered.

"Or at least the money to buy them," put in the third Watcher, a deep-voiced man with a slight German accent to his French.

"I'd say he was in on the kill," Friedanir said. "One wouldn't leave this sort of thing to chance."

"So we assume it's an Immortal with military training, money, and the willingness to get his hands dirty," said the woman.

The German snorted. "They chop each other's heads off. They get their hands dirty all the time. Most of the older ones are rich, and nine out of ten has been in the military at some time." He snorted again, bitter gallows humor in his words. "Maybe you want to go in there and ask Tribune Olenskaya to cross-check the Chronicles for you to narrow the field?"

"Tribune Olenskaya?" the woman said. "But … she wasn't in the building."

"No," said Friedanir grimly. "She was shot in the head at four o'clock this morning, as she left her house."

A low whistle followed that information. "Her and Kananga, too. If I were a tribune, I would seriously consider moving."

Emory already was. Should she take the kids to a nearby town? Or maybe Brussels? Not too far, in case Joe—

"We should all consider moving," the German said. "The schools—"

"Have been evacuated and closed," Friedanir cut in. "All field Watchers everywhere have been ordered to go quiet for the duration."

"And how long will this duration be, I wonder," the German said. No one answered. Emory had heard enough. And seen enough. She went back to the house and waited all day.

Joe never called. He never came home.

This story is continued in Unholy Alliance II, in which Alex finds out more than she wants to know