potential of the applications I have developed. He wants to protect America just as it is—but with my devices, America could rule the world!” Artaud lifted his hands, wiggled his fingers. “These gauntlets, for example. I’ve designed them to give an untrained individual the ability to exercise powers greater even than a fully trained Warlock. Warlocks are limited in the amount of magic they can channel. But with these gauntlets there is no such limitation.”
Artaud paused, regarding his metal-sheathed fingers.
“Of course, I still have to work on the rate at which they use the chrysohaeme … they drain the tanks far too quickly. Haven’t quite figured out how to regulate the flow properly …”
“What’s the Black Exunge for?” Emily lifted a hand, pointing in the direction of a group of men who were using a steel chute to pour the stinking tarlike fluid into a large tank. They were wearing protective suits of spun silver and glass—the same suits the Aberrancy hunters had worn.
“Very good, Miss Edwards.” Artaud sounded genuinely pleased. “That is indeed geochole—or Black Exunge, as you call it. You see, when we started this operation over ten years ago, we had no trouble finding large chrysohaeme pockets to extract. Over the years, however, they became harder to find—in fact, they began to move from day to day. Very frustrating. So we adopted what we’ve come to call the Exunge extraction method.”
Artaud pointed to another row of racks, on which rested a different kind of container—bullet-shaped steel containers stenciled with a skull-and-crossbone design. The exact kind of containers she’d seen the Aberrancy hunters putting Black Exunge into.
“In the early days, geochole was difficult to obtain,” Artaud said. “Now it is wonderfully plentiful, making our job that much easier.”
A goose-pimply chill chased over Emily’s flesh. More magic being used … more Black Exunge being created, overwhelming the Mantic Anastomosis’ natural ability to process and purify it …
“What is the Exunge extraction method?” she asked, but something in the back of her mind told her she knew already.
“Black Exunge is heavier than chrysohaeme, just as water is heavier than oil. We pump Black Exunge deep into the Mantic Anastomosis to get at fragmented pockets of chrysohaeme. It’s quite an effective technique.”
The back of Emily’s throat went dry and tight.
This was what Ososolyeh had shown her.
A lake drained, leaving nothing but foulness behind. But these fools weren’t just sucking the sweet water from the lake, they were pumping poison back into it, container upon container, clogging it with filth and venom.
A world engulfed by roiling blackness.
The Mantic Anastomosis was a living thing.
A living thing that could become an Aberrancy.
The Mantic Anastomosis purges itself of Black Exunge for a reason, Emily realized. Black Exunge is as toxic to the Mantic Anastomosis as it is to any living thing. If Ososolyeh’s ability to purge itself is overwhelmed, it will become an Aberrancy. Everything that lives on earth will be consumed. Everything—everything—will die.
Emily held her hand over her mouth, not trusting herself even to breathe. Artaud watched her, and when he spoke he sounded even more pleased than before.
“You really are taking an interest!” he said, wonderingly. Then he shook his head. “What a shame.”
Artaud brought her to a room on the far side of the Extraction Room, which was small and cold and dark. As Artaud pushed her over the threshold, Emily realized that he did not intend that she would ever come back over it. Not on her own two feet, anyway.
As Artaud moved around the room, raising the gas jets, Emily could see white enameled medical implements. In the middle of the room there was a large, flat dissecting table, with deep channels designed to direct the runoff of blood into a bucket. The dominant feature of the room, however, was another of Artaud’s machines. This one was a girdered archway of steel, surrounded by smaller tubelike chambers, haloed by an intricately wired nest of cloth-wrapped cords.
“Sit.” Artaud gestured to a wooden chair in the middle of the room as he moved toward the machine. Emily stood stock-still.
Anything would be better than being locked in this room with this man, she realized, gut trembling. Anything.
She sprang for the door, her fingers wrapping around the knob just long enough to feel that it was already locked.
Teeth bared, Artaud spread all five gauntleted fingers at her, driving her to her knees. She bent over double, one arm flying up protectively over her head, the other frozen on the locked doorknob. Involuntary tears flooded