misrepresented by the media, how all he had wanted to do was balance out the world’s population so they wouldn’t continue to devour Earth’s resources or cleanse North America of its impurities, all racist vitriol disguised as reverence for a dead man. And worse than all that was that they wanted to bring him back, as if he wouldn’t just murder every last one of them if he returned.
Sloane spotted a group of them roasting hot dogs over a portable grill and gritted her teeth. The tent behind them bore the motto that made Sloane choke on bile: MAKE THINGS RIGHT—BRING HIM BACK.
Make things right was the worst part of it. They thought Matt—the rest of them too, but mostly Matt—was the wrong that needed to be righted, the real evil that the Dark One would eradicate, ushering in some kind of white supremacist utopia.
Right before they passed out of sight, one of the Dark One worshippers recognized them, pointed his hot dog in their direction, and shouted, “Murderers!”
“Fantastic,” Matt said over Sloane’s left shoulder. “Scott, can this thing go any faster?”
“No, we’re pretty much maxed out,” Scott said. “But we’re almost there, don’t worry!”
Sloane felt her heartbeat behind her eyes. One of the men was coming toward them, hot dog in hand, ketchup smeared all over his fingers, and maybe he was shouting, she wasn’t sure, because her ears were ringing.
Hello, Sloane. Did you get some sleep?
“What did you say to me?” she yelled at the guy with the hot dog.
“You heard me!” the man snarled. “Fucking bit—”
“Slo.” Ines’s hands were on her shoulders. “Don’t jump out of the cart, please.”
“Those—fucking—”
“Yeah, I know,” Ines said. “But everyone and her mother has a smartphone and the ability to record video of you wasting some pasty idiot with an inferiority complex, so—”
“Here we are!” Scott chirped like nothing at all had just happened. “We’ll just whisk you through security, and I’ll get in touch with Agent Cho.”
Sometimes Sloane wondered if the world had been worth saving.
8
SOMETHING WAS THERE.
Sloane felt it as soon as she passed through the doors.
Being inside the geodesic dome that housed ARIS’s public-facing front corporation, Calamity Investigation and Restoration (CIR), felt like being inside a giant golf ball. The structure was massive and white, the roof made of small triangular panels that held together in a curve. Fluorescent lights shone between the panels, so the whole place glowed like a Halloween decoration, making everyone’s skin appear green. The people who rushed back and forth inside it wore either the standard government garb—black or gray suits with boring ties and sleek hair—or white hazmat suits with the hoods down.
Agent Henderson waited for them by the entrance, checking his bulky watch. He held a leather file folder against his chest. When Sloane had first met him, right after Bert’s death, he had been the definition of strapping—tall, muscular, and energetic—but he had gone soft around the middle since the Dark One fell. There was gray mixed with the red-brown of his beard now. He had a wife and two children, a mortgage, and a retirement plan.
“Hey, guys,” he said with a grim smile. Sloane squinted at him a little. He looked . . . not right. Or maybe that was just the unsettled feeling inside her talking.
Something was there, in the Dome. She could still feel it.
“How was the golf cart?” Henderson asked.
“One hell of an engine in that thing,” Albie said.
“Yeah, how much torque does it get, like three hundred and sixty-nine foot-pounds?” Ines said. “And the RPMs!”
“I forgot about this little comedy tag team,” Henderson said, waggling his finger between Ines and Albie. “See anything weird out there?”
“We passed a séance in progress, but that seems fairly standard for that crowd,” Matt said. “Has anyone managed to speak to the dead yet?”
“Allegedly,” Henderson said, shrugging. “Pretty sure it was a hoax, but I won’t rule anything out anymore. You okay, Sloane? You don’t look so good.”
Magic, that was what it was. It had to be. She felt that tingling in her chest, right behind her sternum. But she had never felt magic at a Drain site before. She was more likely to feel the opposite, a kind of limpness in the air, like something had wilted.
“Thanks,” she managed to say to Henderson. “Just what everyone likes to hear.”
They said goodbye to Scott, who gave a cheerful wave before returning to his golf cart, and Henderson led them across the springy temporary floor—gray—down an equally gray hallway with temporary