Prescott!
Blinking the sweat from her eyes, Rachel looked again to make sure she wasn't hallucinating from her torment. Sure enough, Sean and his sheriff lackey stood at the forestage, guns pointed at the audience, sending the crowd scurrying away. Nathan hung back beside their ingress point, finger on the trigger but clearly hoping to get this over and done with.
She eyed the trapdoor from where they emerged, wondering how she could have missed it from the blueprints. Of course—it was never in the plans to begin with. Prescott must have built the tunnel in secret, as a contingency. Or because he had foreseen this precise moment and had prepared for it.
Morten's face had turned the same shade as his aglaophotis. "You barbaric, impudent, obscene—"
"Good evening, Mr. Morten." Prescott approached to stare him down. "Let's dispense with pleasantries, shall we? My time with you is short."
"You DARE disturb our Bacchanalia?"
"Of course. I adore a good tragedy." Prescott raised his voice for everyone to hear. "Tonight's festivities are at an end. Keep your hands where I can see them. If anyone starts recording, I will start piling bodies on the Theater floor. Don't test my resolve, and don't waste your time calling for help. You already know that the Theater blocks all sound and cell reception, and I've activated the door locks to seal us in. No one is coming. No one is leaving."
"You can't do this!" Deborah pushed her way forward, a nervous Frederico holding onto her like a man dragged along by his attack dog.
"We-we can come to an arrangement," the portly Italian said. "What do you want?"
Prescott adjusted his box-framed glasses and smiled down at them. "You've already given me what I want. But if you're feeling generous, you could keep your mouth shut. It will help you stay alive."
For a moment, Rachel wondered if they had all forgotten about her, trussed up in the glass dome like a figure in a snow globe. She tugged at her restraints again, but that did little more than make the leather creak against her skin. Her torture had left her exhausted.
"Taking our aglaophotis won't help you," Morten said, finding a measure of calm. "We'll find you and take back every last drop. Let us talk terms, Mr. Prescott. I know we can provide you with something of equal value."
"Once again, I'm impressed by how badly you've misjudged me, Mr. Morten." Prescott backed up to stand beside the red vat. He struck the vat's top cover twice with the butt of his submachine gun, knocking it to the ground. Reaching into his coat pocket with his gloved hand, he produced several blue pellets which he tossed into the swirling red liquid.
Outrage erupted from the crowd, a shared roar that rattled Rachel's glass cage. They surged forward, only halting when the Sheriff tilted his shotgun at them.
"Don't get crazy now," Skinner drawled. "I don't see no bulletproof vests on ya."
At last, Morten's calm demeanor cracked; his eyes were wild, the hands at his sides curling into trembling fists. "What was that? What did you contaminate it with?"
Watching the capsules dissolve, Prescott replied, "That was ninety grams of potassium cyanide in your little nightcap, Mr. Morten. Enough to kill all of you twice over. If you think I'm bluffing, why don't you take a sip?"
"What have you done!" Deborah cried, tears leaking through her fake lashes.
"Now you have nothing to gain!" Frederico wailed. "None of us do!"
Prescott rolled his eyes. "Can you truly be this simple? I HAVE what I want." His eyes shot over to Rachel as he approached the edge of the stage. Every face in the crowd spoke of murder, but none said a word.
"Once, I believed your story," Prescott continued. "A spirit took my father from me, drove me from my home, destroyed my life. Once, we shared the same goal. But now I've learned you hold Bacchanalias for one reason only." He thrust his arm out in a sweeping gesture across the Theater. "To steal an Incarnate's power! To add another inch to your miserable lives! To become as little gods! Which is why I have nothing but contempt for you, you who masquerade as emperors when you are merely frightened children, clutching at your talismans to protect against death and irrelevance!
"But I, I hunger for something greater. Tonight, the witch dies. EVERY last part of her dies. I'll never surrender that goal, nor will I consent to trade ONE god for MANY!"
"You have undone years of work," Morten seethed. "This will not go unpunished. We will run you out of every home you have. The Prescotts will know misery for the rest of their days."
Sean's eyes glittered. "Is that right?" he said, voice sinking to a growl. "Well, I believe you, Mr. Morten." He motioned toward the steps. "Join me onstage, would you kindly?"
When Morten hesitated, Prescott pointed his gun at him. "I insist."
Dropping his shoulders, Morten caved, walking to the stairs leading up to the stage. Prescott watched him go before glancing at his son.
"Nathan," he said, "go to the machine behind that glass dome."
A jolt of panic surged through Rachel—she hadn't been forgotten after all. Nathan stared bug-eyed at his father, unhappy he had a bigger role in this whole affair. A second hard look from him sent the boy trudging to the Neural Inducer.
"There's a dial there," Prescott continued, not taking his eyes off the approaching Morten. "Turn it all the way to the right. Then press the button next to it."
Screaming at Nathan through her gag, Rachel twisted her neck as far as she could. She had just enough leeway to look him in the face—he was still gawping at his father, but Morten had Sean's full attention.
"If you harm me," Morten warned, "every Prescott alive will live to regret it."
Sean did not reply. Keeping his gun pointed at him, he reached behind the vat and found a wine glass, which he then scooped into the aglaophotis. He held the full and dripping glass to Morten, who gazed back at him, thunderstruck.
"W-what are you doing?"
"Testing a theory." Prescott's grin bared all his teeth. "I believe you when you say you will take your revenge. But I don't believe anyone else here would. I don't believe they would expose themselves to more danger than they can afford. I think that without you, your Twins, or the Incarnate, they would simply cut their losses. They owe you their success but not their lives." He pressed the glass onto Morten's chest until the other man took it. "So drink, and let's put your coven to the test."
"You think I'll let you—"
"Do it or I'll shoot you in the stomach and watch you bleed out, slowly and painfully."
Sweat beaded across Morten's face as his mouth scrambled for a response. "You can't k-kill me like this."
"As the Bard wrote, 'I can smile, and murder while I smile.'" Prescott tapped the glass with his gun. "Drink, or take a bullet. It's all the same to me."
Without warning, he roared over his shoulder, "NATHAN! Stop dawdling and do as you're told!"
Nathan's eyes flicked toward his father before landing on the console. He drew the back of his hand across his sweating brow. As his fingers crawled onto the dial, Rachel let out a smothered cry and pulled on her restraints. As their eyes met, her mind raced through anything she could convey through that shared gaze.
But nothing came, nothing but the idea that, in a different timeline, he had already killed her, purely from his own desire. She read the terror on his face and knew he feared his father more than he feared hurting her. Sean's monstrous will held him captive, and for one horrible instant, Rachel was reminded of Frank.
"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" Sean roared. "KILL HER!"
At last, Nathan's hand grasped the dial and twisted it as far as it would go. Turning his face from Rachel, his thumb pressed down on the button.
It was like he had switched on a stove in the glass dome. Rachel gasped as heat seared her flesh; she could swear her limbs were roasting, leaving charred, glowing husks. As every cell of her body burned, Rachel screamed till her throat went raw. Then she screamed some more.
It's just an illusion! An illusion! But the agony reduced all her thoughts to cinders, leaving nothing but a world bathed in fire and the bitter mercy of death.
Max clawed her way through the heavy curtains and stumbled into the Theater. She took a breath, letting her eyes adjust to the semi-darkness of the audience area and the bright lights on the stage.
A crowd was spread across the front rows, their backs to her. Her ears caught someone talking—Prescott. He stood center stage, pointing a gun at another man of roughly the same age, who was holding a glass of wine. No, not wine. That must be the liquid they use to steal an Incarnate's power.
But what grabbed her attention were the muffled shrieks coming from the glass dome left of the stage: Rachel. Max had never seen her in that state, her head thrown back, limbs quaking against her restraints, eyes squeezed shut and her mouth wrenched open as if every inch of her was screaming—
"No!" Max threw her arms out and froze time. As everything ground to a halt, she rushed down the aisle, taking the steps two at a time and leaping onto the stage. The entire scene had become a diorama: Sean and Morten faced each other, one threatening, the other cowering. Nathan stood beside the machine, his face a horrified mask as he glimpsed what was happening inside the dome.
And Rachel, trapped behind glass in a moment of unending agony. Max wanted nothing more than to pull her out and tell her she was going to be alright. If she even thought about wanting to die—
Max moved to place her hands on the dome, only to pull back just inches away.
God, that was too close! There at the bottom, partially concealed by plastic tubing, the carved ward snaked around the dome's wooden base. Touching the glass would have doomed her, Rachel, and everything they had done to get to this point.
Breathe. You've got time—take the damn moment and breathe. Max dropped to her knees on the stage and composed herself. This was the final hurdle, the last and strongest ward. So no more stupid mistakes, Max!
She focused, hands reaching out, edging time forward on the carvings. As before, splitting her powers pained her. The pressure assailed her skull from every direction, as if she were being dragged to the bottom of the sea.
Sweating and shaking, she forced herself through it.One final challenge. Just one more and we win.
But the Theater was ready for her.
Max could hardly believe her eyes. Spectral hands of translucent silvery wisps emerged from the wooden base. Before she could react, the arms snapped toward her, growing impossibly long as they seized her wrist and neck in an icy grip. Max had a second to gasp before the hand around her neck cut off all air.
Her concentration broke; time restarted around her.
As the sub-audible hum of her power faded from her ears, she caught the intake of breath from the crowd behind. Morten's wide gaze moved from Prescott to her, and even Sean turned his head, scowling in surprise.
"Who the HELL are you?" he demanded.
Max couldn't talk or move, not while the invisible hands choked the life out of her. Her eyes shot back to the glass dome and, as she feared, Rachel was once again writhing in her chair, her face contorted by unimaginable pain, a muffled cry erupting from her throat.
Several things happened at once. Morten shouted, "Grab her!" as Sean ordered Nathan, "Shoot!" More hands reached out from behind Max—real ones this time, seizing her hair and shoulders and ripping her away from the ghostly hands. She cried out as her body hit concrete, then she was forced to lie prone as more people pounced on her arms and legs.
There was desperation in the air, a sense that everyone present knew, without explanation, that all their lives hung by a fraying thread.
As another hand forced her cheek against the floor, she glanced up at the stage to see Nathan advancing on her, pale face glistening with sweat, his shaking hands pointing the gun at her head. Nathan, who had killed both Rachel and Chloe in another timeline. Who was seeing Max for the first time, here and now.
They locked eyes. Sean was chanting his name, over and over, but Nathan seemed beyond hearing. He stared at her, looking down the barrel of his gun, and Max steeled herself for the shot that would end her.
It didn't come.
For a long moment, Nathan stood still, fingers twitching on his gun, his face etched with guilt and horror.
"Do I need to do everything myself?" Sheriff Skinner drawled. Pushing past the boy, he hefted his shotgun. At the sight of him, the grip on Max's arms loosened as the people around her scattered.
Max saw her opening and took it.
Raising one free hand, she shrieked, "LET GO OF ME!"
Time surged forward. All around her, hands weakened, the grip on her shoulders surrendering to age, turning from steel to strangling vines. She ripped her arms free as the people around her tumbled and fell like leaves.
The woman who had been gripping her hair collapsed next to her, aging into an iron-haired hag with cataract-covered eyes. "What have you done to me?" she gasped as she died. On the stage, the sheriff's skeleton toppled backward, his rust-covered shotgun dropping to the wooden floor. Nathan shrieked as his dusty bones collapsed against him, sending him running for his father. Everyone else had frozen in shock.
Max was past caring. Kicking her legs free, she clambered onto the stage and splayed both hands before her, feeling for the ward again. The ghostly hands reappeared, writhing, threatening—
But she was ready this time. Drunk on adrenaline, she reached for the nearest pair of hands like she was grappling a snake. It twisted and fought her grip. More limbs surged to grab her, to push her back from the ward.
Yet Max held on. She knew this was nothing more than a spell left by some long-dead shaman. The power behind her was far stronger, far older. With a cry, she bent time to her will.
The hands before her were aging, falling apart as the wood housing them rotted away. Shouting in rage and triumph, Max pushed the hands into nothingness, then slammed her fists on the glass dome and rewound. The glass collapsed into sand, and Rachel's screams reached her ears.
Max leaped over the crumbling ward and fell to her knees before the wheelchair. Her hands found Rachel's wrists—her flesh was feverishly hot.The machine, she realized. The machine was doing this. She grabbed fistfuls of electrodes and ripped them away from Rachel's skin.
At last, the Incarnate fell forward in her chair, exhausted and utterly silent.
"Rachel?" Max pushed the blonde strands away from her face. "Rachel, it's me. I'm getting you out of here." Rachel's eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. Still alive, but in no state to run.
Heavy footsteps thundered behind her. Baring her teeth, Max whirled around to find Sean bearing down on her, face contorted in rage and terror. Max wasn't having it—she raised her hand and ordered time to stop.
It didn't.
Bewildered, she stared at her open hand. What now? Had her powers disappeared again? If so, did that mean—
She could do only one final thing. What she was meant to do from the start.
Max turned and leaned close to the Incarnate's ear.
"Rachel," she whispered, "Rachel—fight."
A heavy hand grabbed her arm and dragged her away. Max whirled to shrug Sean off but he was too strong, wrestling her to the stage floor and pointing the barrel of his gun to her face.
"I don't know who you are," he snarled. "But you won't interfere. You don't get to—"
"Dad!"
The warning in Nathan's voice and the universal gasp from the crowd forced Sean to look up.
The Theater had fallen dead silent. The scent of something burning reached Max's nose. She turned to see Rachel standing before her chair, head bent low, the scorched remains of the leather straps falling from her wrists. When she raised her head, her eyes glowed like embers.
Rachel was burning from the inside.
Fight.
The word instantly woke Rachel from her stupor. The burning sensation had not disappeared—instead, it reached deeper into her flesh, past her lungs and bones, burrowing into the darkest parts of her where it fed and grew strong.
As she stood from her chair, she found that her feet no longer touched the ground. She was as light as air, as a candle flame. But her blood ran magma-hot, her every movement a rising sirocco.
Fight, Max had told her. But she had already made that choice the moment she found Chloe weeping in the emergency room, when she saw Max comatose on the hospital bed.
This time, it was Rachel who had something to tell her. Her burning gaze swept to where her friend lay on the floor and, in a voice not her own, told her, "Run."
"Rachel—" Max began.
Rachel raised her arm and the vat of aglaophotis beside them burst into flames. "RUN."
Max flipped onto her hands and knees and launched herself away from Prescott. Clever Max. She knew exactly where to go, dropping into the trapdoor he had conveniently left open. Sean started after her, but Rachel pointed at the boiling vat—it burst as the liquid hit several degrees above boiling point. The explosion launched Sean off the stage into the front row seats.
Nathan cried out and leaped down from the stage to help his father, followed swiftly by Morten, who saw his chance to flee. Both made the right choice. With a wave of her hand, Rachel razed the containers, the machines, all the tools they had employed to try and murder her.
Then she turned her blazing eyes upon Morten. He lay on the steps, wincing and cradling a twisted ankle, looking up at her with a bloodless face and cursing in Norwegian. There was no one to help him. Every last member of Dionysus had fled screaming up the aisles and were massed together at the narrow exit, trampling each other just to bang on the doors. Their cries reverberated against the steel and concrete.
She gazed down at her arms. A corona of flame enveloped her, every cell, every atom singing with power. She was becoming fire and light. Her own name seemed foreign to her, a word from a language she had forgotten.
But she did remember she had cause to be angry with these people. This one, in particular, squirming before her on the now burning carpet. Her ears caught Morten's frantic heartbeat, faster than a fleeing doe's. He was due for a cardiac arrest. It would be a pity if he died before getting what he had worked so hard for: her energy.
She blew on her upraised palm. A stream of white flame leaped from her hand and burrowed into his open mouth. She fed him fire and watched as his flesh melted and his bones turned black. She stopped only when he was a wretched, shapeless mass bubbling on the concrete floor.
The sight of his carcass sent the Dionysus members into a frenzy—they climbed over each other, crushing hands and lungs and heads. She hadn't even touched them and already four hearts had stopped beating. She thought she would feel something, but really, what else did she have left inside of her but fire?
A commotion to her right drew her attention. There was Nathan, half-pushing, half-grappling his father toward the steps leading up to the burning stage, where their trapdoor still lay open. Sean's blood dripped down his cheeks from the shards of glass on his scalded face. But the way he bared his teeth and raised his gun betrayed what he was thinking: I can still win.
Nathan was begging, "Dad, we need to leave!"
"No!"
"It's too late, Dad! Look, we can jump the fire! We can make it! Just come with me!"
"Out of my way, coward!" In his other hand, Sean held a broken wine glass half-filled with red fluid. "If I douse her with aglaophotis, I can—!"
"It's over, Dad!"
"It's NEVER over!"
The two Prescotts struggled with each other on the steps, Nathan grabbing his father's arms to drive him backward, Sean fighting to get close enough to Rachel to hurl the glass. Then—
BLAM!
The shot cracked across the room and both men froze. Nathan staggered back as he clutched his bleeding stomach. His face registered no pain, only shock. It was his father's face that held all the agony.
Nathan crumpled to his side, lifeless, blood oozing into the turquoise carpet. Sean followed him down, dropping the gun and the glass as he fell to his knees. His hands were stained crimson.
Ignoring the frenzied crowd, Rachel drifted closer until she was floating before Sean. He was whispering his son's name over and over, shaking him as if to wake him. But Nathan would never open his eyes again. This time, he had escaped.
Prescott raised his wet eyes to her, gripped his son's body tight, and yelled, "This is MY land!"
And Rachel replied, "I am the land."
A jet of flame erupted from her fingers, swallowing him whole. Father and son were finally as one, here on their funeral pyre.
She paused to take in the white walls and the smoke-filled ceiling. This place was too confining. She shouldn't be caged, not by anyone. For years, she felt that part of her was sleeping, unaware of what she was and what she could do. Now, it was wide awake. It was free.
She opened her mouth and sang a single, piercing note. Her voice flooded the Theater, and her fire grew, feeding on cloth and leather and flesh. She doubled in size, then more. More. Naked she rose, her flaming hair brushing the ceiling, scorching white paint black. She sang as she raised her hand and pushed through burning wood, melting steel beams like wax, until there was nothing above but the night sky. The inferno at her feet swallowed Dionysus, bones and all, and her song filled the winds above Arcadia Bay:I am alive. Alive!
She towered over the forest, facing up as she rose higher, growing until she breached the orange clouds. Now she could see the moon and the stars, the Milky Way blazing into forever. Then she looked down from that impossible height, down to where the lights of the town and far-off cities littered the darkness.
Everything was so small, so trivial, a pale imitation of the majesty above. And also empty, quiet. There were no voices to match her own, no great spirits, no others like her. They had all been snuffed out by the people below, so they could fill it with their noise, their lights, their dreams.
She remembered saying that the stars were lies, dead things that shed only the remnants of their past glory. But here, now, she could shed her own light, be her own star. Never again would she be caged or threatened. Never again would anyone silence her. She could do as she wished. She could build a better world from the old one.
But to do that, the old one had to go.
Rachel raised her voice and sang. She was flame and light and beauty incarnate, in all the terror that could bring. And the world would know her.
Max plunged through the dimly lit tunnel like a rabbit fleeing a fox. She kept one hand on the wall to help keep her balance and the other in front of her in case she tripped. Every few steps, motion-sensor lights activated near her feet to illuminate the floor.
She did not slow down nor look behind her, not even once. It wasn't just Rachel's voice she heard. There was something else, a deep, echoing rumble—ancient, fathomless, and very, very angry.
Max had no desire to stick around to find out what came next. No way.
She was so busy running that her foot struck the bottom of the stairs and she pitched forward on the steps—if she hadn't put her hand out she would have taken a nasty spill. Pushing herself upright, she hurried up the stairs until her hand found another trapdoor.
Gathering her legs under her, Max shoved at the metal door and sent it crashing open. She poked her head out to find herself in the forest, the tall pines rustling from a sudden gust of wind. It was easy enough to see because of a strange orange light illuminating the trees.
Light? Max's spine trembled as she stumbled out of the passageway and looked around. Less than thirty feet away was the chain-link fence. Beyond that was the light's source: the Theater ablaze, its double doors tumbling open, smoke escaping from every window.
Max was scarcely aware of her mouth falling open as the Theater's pointed roof collapsed into a fiery pit, only for something else to rise in its place. The winds rushed to greet it as it bloomed, radiating heat and light, gobbling up the Theater and the surrounding darkness.
A fire tornado.
Oh God. Max stumbled back from the vortex's blinding glare. Even from here, the heat was baking her skin. Tendrils of flame crawled on the grass and hundreds of sparks floated on the breeze, landing on bushes and trees. This forest would be charcoal in no time, and after that—
After that, Arcadia Bay.
Max took off, jumping over exposed roots and shoving her way through bushes. What was she supposed to do without her powers? All her plans involved fleeing the Theater with Rachel in tow—nothing had prepared her for a firestorm!
I need to get to Chloe, she thought. We can figure out what to do once we get away.
She ran parallel to the fence, heading for the entrance. The wind rose into a gale, drawn in by the tornado's heat and pressure. As Max watched, the vortex gathered strength, growing to an incredible height until it turned the clouds above bright red. In the courtyard, Dionysus' bodyguards, deciding this was beyond their pay grade, were running for the gated entrance.
Pushing past one more bush, Max found herself on the dirt road near the entrance to the Theater, and there, on the other side of the path, a familiar rusty truck revved its engine and switched on its headlights.
"Chloe!"
Her girlfriend wasted no time. Wheels squealing, the truck sped toward Max and drifted to a stop next to her. "Get in!" Chloe screamed as she threw open the passenger door.
Even as Max lunged for the vacant seat, gunshots rang out from the direction of the gate.
"Motherfucker! The fuck are they shooting at us for?" Chloe shifted into reverse before Max could even clamber onto her seat. Max ducked her head and slammed the door shut. Glass shattered and the truck sounded like it was getting pelted by bricks. Something whizzed past her ear and she could swear her heart stopped beating.
But Chloe shifted gears and they were away, hurtling down the road and leaving the Theater in their dust.
"What the hell happened?" Chloe demanded, scratching at her side. "Where's Rachel? Why's everything on fire?"
Max needed several gulps of air before she could reply. Her hands still shook from the adrenaline, but she clenched them shut and pointed out the window at the orange light beyond. "She—she stayed to do…that."
Max had no idea if Chloe would even believe her. But the older girl glanced at the rearview mirror at the raging inferno behind them before turning back to Max. "I—I don't think she's simply causing that, Max. I think she IS the fire. If she's taken that form then—"
Chloe trailed off, her silence conjuring hellish visions in Max's head. Should they flee Arcadia Bay now? Her promise to Rachel hung over her like a sword. She had to protect Chloe above all else. But would Chloe even agree to leave?
Chloe wasn't even thinking of that. She yanked her phone from her pocket and handed it to Max. "Call David," she rasped. "Tell him to get mom somewhere safe, like, close to the water or something. Tell him to get the fire department, the cops, the mayor. Tell him to get everyone out."
As he dropped the call, David let the hand carrying his phone slide down his cheek as he gazed, horrified, out his patio doors. To the east, the hills above Arcadia Bay glowed like a furnace, the trees disappearing by the second behind a shimmering wall of fire.
He started doing everything at once. He screamed Joyce's name as his numb fingers reached for the car keys, only to drop them on the carpet. Cursing, he bent to scoop them up, even as he dialed emergency services, even as he was sprinting to the garage.
A fire like that would give them only minutes. He had to trust that Chloe was headed someplace safe. Right now, Joyce was his one priority.
In Blackwell Academy's courtyard, Warren stared up at the burning clouds and the rising smoke, too stunned to think. So much was happening so fast—Juliet, Brooke, now this. It was hard to keep up with the daily parade of horrors.
But as he watched the flames run down the hills towards the town's easternmost houses, he thought, Shit! Hayden lives over there! Did he go home for the weekend?
His trembling hands went for his phone even as he sprinted for the dorms to warn the others. None of his friends were dying tonight, not if he could help it.
In his garage, Popsy ordered his kids into the car as he turned the key in the ignition. His voice sounded unrecognizable to his ears—too high, trembling, almost screeching.
Mari was guiding her younger sister into the back seat, whispering that everything was going to be okay. Leila was doing her best not to cry, but the terror in her dark round eyes was there all the same. Popsy couldn't blame her—he was scared shitless too.
"Marl!" he screamed. "Marl! Get your ass out here! We gotta go!"
She ran out the back door moments later, her arms laden with insurance documents she had managed to save. Thank goodness for her presence of mind. He just hoped that the roads out of Arcadia Bay were still clear.
In the parking lot of the Two Whales, Lulu stood on a car's roof to watch the approaching flames, her dark hair flying in the hot breeze. A smile danced upon her lips, and when she looked around at the slack-jawed bystanders, she pointed at the inferno and said, "Judgement."
Max dropped the call and kept her eyes dead ahead. The truck had traded the dirt road for the concrete of Arcadia Bay Drive. They needed to choose their next steps now before going any further.
She turned to give Chloe's phone back and tell her to stop so they could talk, but a passing street lamp illuminated something on her hand. A trickle of red had flowed down from her palm to her wrist. Frowning, Max turned the phone over to find its casing caked in blood.
Max's gaze swept to the girl beside her. Chloe gripped the wheel tightly as she drove, white knuckles standing out in the gloom. Her face was also too pale, her eyes wide and unfocused.
"Chloe…" Max held out her palm to show to her.
Chloe gave a jolt when she spied the blood. "Max! Are you hurt?" She scoured Max's face and hands for wounds, but soon realized what she meant. She glanced down at her left side and probed it with her fingers.
They came away red.
"Oh, God," Max gasped. "Chloe, you've been shot!"
"Christ, I didn't even feel it…" Chloe studied the blood on her hand before clamping it onto the steering wheel again. She didn't ease her foot off the pedal.
"Never mind that!" Max's voice was creeping higher and louder. "We gotta get you to a hospital, NOW!"
Chloe shook her head. "No."
Max stared at her, dumbfounded. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean we don't have time." Chloe glanced at her and Max didn't miss the steel in her blue gaze. "We have to save the town. And to do that, we have to save Rachel."
"But—"
"She never learned to control fire, Max. She needs our help."
"Chloe, you've BEEN SHOT. We need to get you help, or—" Max didn't let herself finish. A wretchedness filled her chest; she couldn't believe she was doing this again, being forced to choose between saving the town or someone she loved. "I won't trade you, Chloe!"
Again, Chloe shook her head. "Then count me on the list of people we can save, Max. We get to Rachel, she can fix me up like she did you."
"That's too big a risk! I don't have my powers anymore! If we run out of time…Chloe, Rachel asked me to take care of you—she made me promise!"
"Pretty sure she didn't take into account her burning the whole state to the ground."
Max ignored the joke. "Rachel chose this. I let her make that choice."
"Then she can choose again, Max! That's why we gotta help her." Chloe met her eyes once more, the steel in her gaze giving way to a plea. "Help me help her."
The despair deepened within Max. She couldn't say no to those eyes, even if it meant plunging both of them into mortal danger. She curled her fists and pressed them against the top of her thighs. "How do we do this?"
Chloe sighed in relief. "I'm coming up with a plan. First step's to get close to that tornado."
"I already hate this plan."
"Wait till you hear the rest of it," Chloe laughed, then touched her side again. "Max, I need you to drive. I…I think the adrenaline's wearing off."
Max swallowed a painful lump as the truck slowed to a stop. She got out and rounded to the other side of the truck while Chloe dragged herself over to take her place. When Max opened the driver's side door, she all but burst into tears. Half the seat and the inside of the door were covered in blood.
"We have to go," Chloe gently prodded her.
Forcing herself to breathe, Max pulled the rainbow towel cover on the backrest over the seat cushion before hauling herself inside. The truck rattled beneath her as she drove them down Arcadia Bay Drive.
"Turn left when you hit 2nd Street," Chloe said. She had fished out a roll of duct tape from the glove compartment and was binding her torso with it, cutting the tape with her teeth. Max wanted to stop and help, but a look from Chloe told her to keep driving. She stepped on the gas and the truck raced through town.
People were out on every street, either gaping stupidly at the firestorm or running for their cars. At every house, children cried through open doors, dogs barked at the coming inferno. One truck had crashed into a fire hydrant, leaving it spraying water all over the avenue. The air was thick with smoke and sirens.
"Turn left again at Alder Lane," Chloe gasped, no longer hiding the pain in her voice. "We need to go east."
Max nodded once, but she kept glancing to see if Chloe was going to pass out. If she did, it didn't matter what she said—Max was driving her to the hospital.
Then again, would the hospital even survive the fire? So much could go wrong, it's so hard to think!
But Chloe somehow kept awake, slouched on her seat with agony lining her face, one hand clutching her wound and the other braced against the door frame. She kept her eyes trained on the road ahead, telling Max to climb the sidewalk to avoid oncoming cars or drive across someone's lawn to skirt a jammed intersection.
They sped past Chloe's street, past Rachel's house, rushing by their old elementary school. Every building was bathed in an orange glow, and as they drove, the fire tornado loomed even larger. Its serpentine body danced through the edge of town in a shimmering barrier. Max couldn't believe Rachel could create such a monster, so demonic in its beauty, so ready to turn their hometown to ash.
Yet despite that terrible sight, Max's eyes kept returning to the dark red blot growing larger by the minute on Chloe's side. It was just a matter of what killed her first: the fire or the gunshot wound. But she wasn't letting either one stop her.
Which means I can't stop either.
At last, they reached 5th Street, and here a snarl of abandoned cars stopped any further progress. Beyond were only burning houses and scorched gardens—the edge of the inferno. From here, they had to go on foot.
"What's the plan, Chloe?" Max asked as she parked the truck.
Chloe drew in a sharp breath as she stared at the tornado. She looked beyond exhausted, her blood bright red on her pale fingers. "To be honest, I'm not sure. I was thinking of standing in front of Rachel and keeping her from burning us all up."
"Your grand plan was to get between the fire tornado and Arcadia Bay?"
"Heh. I figured if you're faced with a god, the only thing you can do is pray."
Grunting in pain, she leaned over and took her hand.
"Max, no matter what happens, I want you to know I love you. I'm glad we're together again, and that we had all this time, even if it ends up being too short. These last two months were the best and worst of my life, and it's not enough. It's never enough.
"Thank you, thank you for coming back to me."
Max found herself on the verge of tears again. "I'm not ready to say goodbye, Chloe."
"Then let's make sure we won't have to." Chloe pushed her door open. "Let's go save Rachel."
Max jumped out of the cab and ran over to help. Slinging Chloe's right arm over her shoulders, Max led them further down the road, limping their way through the maze of abandoned cars, bags, and knocked-over garbage cans.
All around them, the world burned. Fire raced through gardens and lawns, glass windows shattered from the heat, and sparks swarmed overhead. The winds groaned, pulling them closer to the flames.
And the heat was indescribable. Max gasped as it grew harder to breathe. Chloe grew heavier at her side; she was weakening too, relying more on Max to prop her up.
Still, they were inching closer to the towering pillar that they hoped contained Rachel. A few more steps and they were standing in front of its burning wall. This was it, they could go no further.
Max raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare. Sweat ran down her face in sizzling lines; she wiped them with a hand drenched in blood. She realized she wasn't afraid to die; she feared being too weak to help.
"Tell me we'll make it, Chloe," she begged.
"Don't worry, Max." Chloe coughed. "Think I'd risk your life if there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell this would work? Besides, I think I figured it out."
"What? Figured what out?"
"What my dad's been trying to tell me all along," Chloe giggled deliriously. "I don't burn."
She surprised Max by pulling away and using the last of her strength to step forward.
"Rachel," she groaned. "Can you hear me?"
Chloe stumbled, and Max hurried to catch her before she fell onto the broiling concrete.
"Rachel," Chloe went on. "Hey, I think I got myself in trouble again. Can you help a girl out?"
They took a few steps closer to the flames. It was too much—Max was forced to raise her arm to protect her eyes. But not Chloe: she stared unflinchingly into the fire until she wept, and kept walking.
And to Max's surprise, a gap appeared in the wall of flames. The fire died down to make way for them, revealing a bed of smoking ash.
Chloe smiled and walked into the gap without hesitation. "See? I know you so well. You wouldn't let me get hurt. Could you come out? Could we talk?"
Max helped her trudge on, braving the heat and pressure. The further they went, the more the fire around them faltered. The heat dissipated and revealed more of the ravaged landscape—scorched trees, broken cars, hollowed-out homes.
More than that, the tornado above them was no longer a towering pillar of fire. It was dwindling, its crown leaving the clouds, its white core cooling to a soothing red glow. The winds enfolded them, driving the smoke away.
It's working. Max could scarcely believe it, but Chloe's words were reaching Rachel.
"I want to talk to you about so many things," Chloe murmured, her eyes falling shut. "Things haven't been the same between us, and maybe they never will be, but I can't stand not having you here with me.
"Come back to me, Rachel. Please."
Harsh coughing took over and her legs suddenly gave way. Too weak to catch her, Max followed her down, arms surrounding her to shield her from the soot-laded ground. This was as far as they could go.
"Keep talking," Max encouraged her, tears coursing their way down her dirt-covered cheeks. "She's listening, Chloe."
Laying in her bed of ash, eyes falling shut, Chloe whispered:
"I would spread the cloths under your feet
But I, being poor, have only my dreams
I have spread my dreams under your feet
Tread softly because…because…"
She fell silent as her head pitched into the dirt. All the while, her fading sight lingered on the thinning pillar of flame, waiting. Hoping.
Then something touched Max on her shoulder, soft as a bird landing on her bare skin. It happened again on her hair, then on the back of her hand.
Rain.
Max looked up to see the dark clouds massing overhead, soft rain falling on them like a benediction. The night darkened once more as fires began to go out all over the forest and the town, the ground hissing as steam filled the air like the evening fog.
The tornado had shrunk down to a sliver of itself, a doorway to a burning hellscape. Then the last of its light blew out as the door shut and Rachel stepped naked onto the embers.
She knelt before Chloe, kissed her forehead, and touched her side. Chloe gasped as the duct tape burned away, revealing the hole in her flesh. The wound spat out the bullet before closing into a dark red scab.
"Because you tread on my dreams," Rachel murmured, smiling through her tears.
It took nearly half an hour before they could make their way to safety. The sky was turning pink in the east when they drove into an evacuation camp on the beach. First responders had pitched tents and were tending to the evacuees while a news crew interviewed the mayor. The local police were there too, doing a headcount of the arriving townsfolk.
The three of them sat on the rear bumper of the truck and watched the crowd milled around them. They barely talked; no words could capture what they were feeling anyway. They contented themselves with staying close together. Rachel sat in between, Chloe's leather jacket draped over her shoulders and a blanket cinched around her waist. Her hands stayed linked with both Max's and Chloe's; no one had any intention of letting go, not tonight.
"I can't believe it," Max whispered, turning her eyes to the girls beside her. "It's finally over."
"We made it," Chloe added, stroking Rachel's hand in hers. "All three of us. "
"Dionysus is gone," Rachel murmured. "So is Prescott. It's…overwhelming to think about—"
"Don't think about it," Chloe interrupted, tightening her grip. "Not tonight. We're alive. That's what matters."
"I'll never forget that," Rachel said, meeting her gaze. "Like I'll never forget what you two did. I didn't think I'd come back. But you risked everything to save me. To save everyone. Thank you."
A medic arrived to check on them and, satisfied they were free of burns or smoke inhalation, handed them bottles of water to drink. Chloe took one look before emptying the whole thing on her head. "I could sleep for a year," she said, wiping her face clean of grime.
Though there were many injuries among the townsfolk, no one seemed to be missing. There was still considerable damage: the mayor estimated that the entire eastern edge of Arcadia Bay was uninhabitable, translating to about a hundred people homeless, at least temporarily.
Max shook her head to banish the thought. There would be time to rebuild, to heal. Arcadia Bay lost nothing irreplaceable tonight. If this was the future she had gambled to save, she was taking it, burns and all.
They were quiet for a moment, letting the silence settle as their hot blood cooled. Eventually, Chloe stood up, squinting at the distance. "Hey! Mom!" She waved at the couple who had just entered the camp.
"Go check on them, Chloe," Rachel said, letting go of her hand. "We'll wait here."
With a nod, Chloe bolted for the entrance and into Joyce's arms. David stood next to them, looking tentative but relieved. Max watched all three of them talk and exchange stories; she already missed Chloe's touch.
Beside her, Rachel sipped her water, her eyes downcast and her thoughts distant. Max's joy curdled a little. She had no idea what these past few hours were like for her and how much trauma she had to endure. But she wasn't alone in that. They would be here to help. Whatever she needed.
Rachel noticed her gaze and lifted her head. "Are you alright?" she asked Max.
"I'm going to be," Max answered, smiling. "Right now, I'm more worried about you."
Rachel blinked slowly. "Things could have gone...very badly, Max."
"I know." Max gripped her hand tightly. "But they didn't. Like you said, we got you back. We saved everyone."
The corners of Rachel's mouth tilted up to mirror Max's smile. "My hero," she whispered fervently, her soft gaze causing a tingle in Max's cheeks. "We've got plenty to talk about between us, don't we?"
Max nodded. "I was just thinking how amazingly different the future's going to be." She raised their linked hands. "Like, you're gonna be in it, and Chloe too. It's...wild. I mean, yeah, we've still got a lot to discuss, but I think we can—"
Max trailed off, frowning. It was a tiny thing at first, but it was there: a pull that grew stronger by the second. Like someone had stuck a hook into her belly and was tugging at it relentlessly.
Rachel instantly picked up on it. "Max? Something wrong?"
Panic rushed through her veins as realization set in. "No," Max muttered. "It can't be. Not now!"
She sprang to her feet, her hand still clasping Rachel's but her eyes seeking out Chloe. Her girlfriend turned right at that moment, her wide grin fading when she spotted the look on Max's face. When Max reached out for her, Chloe broke into a run.
"Max!" Rachel cried as she was pulled from her seat. "What's happening?"
Chloe was shouting her name too, lunging for her outstretched hand. But Max was beyond her help. She was falling forward through time itself, pulled along by the spirit's will, everything fading away as she was hurled from this world into another.
First days, then weeks tumbled past, a parade of events swirling through the ether. Her stone-faced parents driving her back to Seattle. Houses being rebuilt across Arcadia Bay. The police discovering Jefferson's vehicle near the water tower. A brown-haired young woman in khakis and carrying a traveling bag being welcomed in Prescott's mansion. Mourners laying flowers before Juliet Watson's picture at the dormitory steps.
And finally, Rachel and Chloe sitting in her bedroom, together but apart—Chloe busy on her laptop as Rachel sat on the bed, staring sadly down at the Polaroid camera in her hands.
Stop—I need to be there! STOP!Max reached out for something to grab, only for time to rush like sand between her fingers. On and on she fell, until—
She hit the soft covers of a bed.
Yelping, Max sat up, gazing wildly about. Across the room, someone else jumped in their seat.
"Max," a feminine voice cried, "you scared me! Did you have a bad dream?"
Max rubbed her eyes and stared at the blonde girl sitting at her desk.
"Kate?"
"Um, yes?" Kate brushed her hair from her face and gazed uncertainly at Max. "Are you okay? You're all out of breath."
"I'm—" Max had no idea what to say. Her gaze scoured the room where everything seemed at once familiar and unfamiliar. The wall next to her bed was covered by her Polaroid collection. On a study desk below it were her camera, her laptop, and two teddy bears. On the other side of the room stood another bed, a desk, a violin case, and a cage with a rabbit.
So I'm rooming with Kate?
"What day is it?" Max blurted out.
"Uh…" Utterly confused, Kate pointed to the alarm clock on Max's bedside table. The calendar stated Monday, October 28.
Shit! I'm back to the same day I left!
Max leaped out of bed only to wind up tangling herself in her sheets. She fought her way out as she half-jogged, half-jumped to the door.
"What's going on, Max?" Kate called after her.
But Max was already out in the hall, trying to look at everything at once. Again, it was all simultaneously strange and familiar. A cozy bookshelf, family pictures, several doors leading to more guest rooms—this was someone's home, not a dorm.
Her memory was catching up to her, bit by bit. The Prescott Dorms were still closed, so some people opened their homes for students to rent. She and Kate wound up here, but it wasn't just them. At the room at the end of the hall was—
Max sprinted to the mahogany door and knocked rapidly on it. "Rachel!" she cried. "Rachel, it's me! Open up!"
A long moment of silence followed. Max was aware of the other doors opening, curious eyes peeking out to stare. But she kept her attention on the room before her, her last breath trapped in her chest.
At last, the door cracked open to reveal a pair of cautious hazel eyes. "Max?"
"I'm back," Max said breathlessly. "I remember now!"
The door opened wide to reveal Rachel. She was in her pajamas but had almost certainly been awake. She looked thinner and paler than before, the shadows under her eyes telling of sleepless nights. But to Max, she was beautiful beyond words, the changes only sharpening her most striking features. The look of relief and happiness washing over her face only made her lovelier.
"Oh God, oh God!" Rachel reached out and Max threw herself into her arms. "I finally have you back!"
Max murmured Rachel's name repeatedly as they held each other. It felt so good to be in her arms again. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm sorry I left you. I couldn't help it."
"I know," Rachel murmured back. "I'm just glad you remember me again. I had no idea if you were ever going to. I was starting to lose hope." When they parted, Rachel's eyes were shining with tears. "Max, it's so good to have you back."
"I'm never leaving you again." Max knuckled her own tears away. "Rachel," she went on, "can we go visit Chloe? I need to see her."
"Max…" To her surprise, Rachel turned away. The sight of her trembling lips drove a sinking sensation into the pit of Max's stomach. Her father's words echoed in her head:Joy and sorrow always come in equal measure to us Caulfields.
She grabbed the blonde girl's shoulders. "Rachel, talk to me! Did something happen to Chloe?"
Rachel swallowed hard, the last traces of joy vanishing from her face.
"Chloe's gone, Max," she said, locking eyes with her again. "She left Arcadia Bay almost a month ago."