He barely gave me a glance as he stalked forward, bellowing, “You got any new blue jeans in, old man?” The jeans he was wearing were, in fact, splattered with a dark substance that could have equally been motor oil or blood. I decided I didn’t need to know the technicalities, and walked out into the parking lot.

A large black and chrome Harley-Davidson motorcycle was parked at an angle in front of the shop, the leather tassels on its handlebars flickering in the breeze.

I smiled.

Really, sometimes it’s just too easy.

The Harley was built for intimidation, not comfort, and it jolted me with every bump of the road—but the freedom it gave me was a wonderful thing. I called Marion before I left, but there’d been no real change in Luis’s condition; he was still unconscious, though she’d been able to repair the physical damage, which had all been internal. She didn’t think he was in any lasting danger.

I did. Ironic that I’d warned him to watch out for the traitor at the school, and then done him an injury myself, but that didn’t mean the traitor wouldn’t take the golden opportunity to put Luis out of the way when he was down.

After much debate, I told Marion. To my surprise, she already knew. “Luis told me,” she said. “Not sure I believe it, but I agree, the timing of your mudslide was more than just coincidental. I’m watching, Cassiel. Trust me.”

I did, or I’d never have spoken to her about it.

“I got a call from the FBI,” she continued, without changing her tone at all. “They say you were supposed to show up for a meeting in Albuquerque. They’re mildly peeved that you ditched them.”

“Mildly?”

“Well, that’s the story they gave me. I expect they’re beating the bushes looking for you. I assume you’re protecting yourself, including randomizing this phone.”

“I am.”

“Good girl. Go to it, then. I’ll call you if anything changes with Luis.”

“And Ibby?” I dreaded her answer, but it came readily enough, and cheerfully.

“The girl’s doing well. Scared about her uncle right now, but otherwise settling in. She’s a sweet little thing. Her seizures have stopped, at least for now.”

I felt a stir of hope. “Does this mean she can recover?”

Marion’s silence was a depressing omen of the words to come. “No,” she finally said. “That’s not what I meant. Ibby’s damage goes deep, all the way to her core. I mean I can stabilize her and extend her life, but I can’t heal her. If she uses her power, I may not even be able to promise that much.”

I knew that, but for a moment, I had felt an entirely unreasonable surge of hope. And it hurt, badly, to have it taken away. I had known there would be no miracles, and yet ...

And yet.

“I have to go,” I said.

“You don’t have to,” Marion said. “You could turn around. Come back. Ibby and Luis—”

“I have to go,” I repeated. It made me feel cold inside, but I couldn’t let her talk me out of this. Not now. Not when I’d seen how close Pearl was to the power she needed.

I had many miles to go, and I didn’t intend to spend them talking.

It took three days, sleeping in short bursts at campsites, to reach the area where I’d sensed Pearl’s presence. Not surprisingly, it was a fenced, guarded compound in the woods, and it was surrounded by federal agents and observers. No press, which was interesting; the FBI had succeeded in maintaining the press blackout so far, and it was an impressive accomplishment, considering the deaths and other criminal acts that had already been associated with the Church of the New World.

But now I had a dilemma. There seemed to be no real way to easily bypass the federal observers and enter the camp, and even if I did, they’d know I was an intruder. I needed a quieter, more thorough reconnaissance, one that required me to blend in to my surroundings—or as much as my costuming would allow. I could try a cloak, but that was one thing I was curiously deficient in as a skill; Luis was much, much better at it, and I could never keep it up for long. Certainly not long enough to make it into the compound, against the Argus-eyed guards Pearl would have set, animal and human.

There would be no way in without the cooperation of the FBI.

So I rode the Harley up to the front door of the communications trailer parked half a mile up a country road, raising a column of dust and frightening sheep with the motorcycle’s unforgiving noise. I parked, walked up to the trailer’s door, and knocked. The sign claimed that it was a telecommunications work van, but the man who cautiously opened the door didn’t seem to me to be authentically blue-collar. He seemed ill at ease in his gray jumpsuit, and I doubted his name was really Earl.

“My name is Cassiel,” I said. “I believe that the FBI is looking for me. I want to bargain.”

Whatever they had expected, it wasn’t this. The man stared at me for a few seconds. I stripped off the glove on my left hand and wiggled my coppery fingers in his face, made a fist, and then opened it again. “I assume your instructions said to look for someone with a metal arm,” I said. “It’s a great deal more certain than most distinguishing marks.”

He looked over his shoulder at someone else in the trailer, then said, “Uh, excuse me for a minute, ma’am,” and shut the door. I waited patiently, putting my glove back on and crossing my arms. The day was nice in New Jersey, though humid. Sheep ambled the hills, having forgotten the scare of my passage. I wondered if the cows I’d set free on the road from their slaughterhouse trip had ever found freedom—sweet grass and long life. Probably not. Life was rarely so simple, even for cows.

After a lengthy, but restful, few minutes, the door opened again, and Earl leaned out. “Ma’am? Please step inside.” He said it politely enough, but it wasn’t exactly a request, either. His tone implied the please was really just a formality.

Since it had been my choice, I allowed him his little illusion of power and obliged.

Inside I found no fewer than four agents, all dressed in gray jumpsuits with creatively rustic names embroidered on the front, under a corporate logo so vague as to have been entirely mysterious. Three of them had weapons in their hands—FBI-issued handguns, extremely effective at such close range, should I allow them the luxury of firing.

“Please sit down,” Earl said, and indicated an office chair that, from the warmth of the cushions, had been recently vacated by someone’s rear. The FBI van was stripped to the essentials, but at least the chairs were reasonably comfortable, and there was coffee brewing in the corner. “Special Agent in Charge Rostow is on the way to talk to you. Until he gets here, please sit quietly.”

I didn’t know Special Agent Rostow, but I had no doubt that he would be just as effective and efficient as all of the other FBI representatives I had met. I had no real desire to chat, and instead I studied the van workers each in turn. I found nothing especially interesting, but one of them, a woman, found my regard uncomfortable and finally snapped, “What?”

“She’s not doing anything, Andy,” said the man sitting beside her. They both had banks of monitors to watch, and he’d never taken his eyes off of his responsibility. “Stay focused. She’s not our problem.”

I wondered what their problem was, and so I focused on the monitors as well. It was the compound, of course, shown from a painstakingly thorough set of angles, and both distant and close views. Beyond the gates, people moved with every evidence of calm purpose. Some of them were tilling a field, by hand, with hoes. A group of women in pastel clothing was hanging up laundry on a line strung between two trees, while another group had taken on the task of scrubbing and wringing out clothes in a series of large tubs. Still another group was preparing for a meal, and I watched them as they casually chatted and chopped vegetables for a pot.