The longer I remain plugged in, attuned to the Zodai’s answers, the more contradictions that arise, as the scores of minds communicating begin to hit areas of disagreement. I sense curiosity, tension, debate. Then more answers come like a tempest.
Now the picture in my brain begins to split—like I’m arguing pros and cons with myself, only there are many more minds involved. On the one hand, Ophiuchus originated as a morality tale that was then twisted into a dozen different forms by the long-ago Guardians of each House, so that each version would best speak to their people. On the other hand, there is a sect of hardcore conspiracy theorists across the Zodiac who go by the moniker 13 and believe Ophiuchus was real.
According to members of 13, Ophiuchus was the original Guardian of the Thirteenth House—since history tells us the original Guardians were named after each House. The theorists claim that when the first humans arrived and the Guardian Stars fell to earth, Ophiuchus was the only one who resented his new, lower place. When he discovered the fall had cost the Guardians their immortality, he set about getting it back.
He betrayed the other Houses in the process, and when he was found out, the Guardians banished him, far away from our solar system.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t kill him because he had already made himself immortal. But could any of this be real?
Some believers claim Ophiuchus started out as a brilliant healer, full of compassion for mankind. They say he was searching for death’s cure to protect all people—not just himself—and that the other Guardians misconstrued him. If that’s true, what would drive him to murder now?
I let go of the Ring, and I’m back on the floor beneath the glimmering Ephemeris. I want to tell Nishi what I learned in the Collective Conscious, but before leaving I consult the spectral map one more time. Staring into the lights’ depths, I feel my way into the view of the Psy that only the Ephemeris can show—the view from the stars.
As soon as I’m Centered, the room darkens, as if the Dark Matter were spreading. I spring to my feet and whirl around, searching for the cause—until I see it.
Dark Matter has swallowed House Virgo.
As I watch, the cloud of blackness expands to the double constellation, House Gemini. There are two attacks on the way.
I start to pull out of the astral plane, but then I hear whispering in my head, like someone is trying to communicate with me in the Psy. Except that kind of communication only works through the Ring—and the metallic silicon isn’t warm, nor is the buzzing in my finger calling to me.
This voice is coming from the Ephemeris. Which is impossible.
I follow the sound, as if I’m an object in Space being sucked by its gravitational pull. The voice is coming from Helios. I reach a hand out to the burning mass and dip my fingers in its yellow light.
Then I vanish.
11
I’M NOT IN THE SHADOW WORLD, and I’m not in the Ephemeris. . . . I’m in a kind of passage through Space. Objects are whizzing by me—meteoroids, stars, debris. Everything is moving too fast, like I’m in a slipstream.
Who are you?
The commanding voice booms through the wind tunnel, and an inhuman coldness grips my heart.
Rho Grace. Guardian of the Fourth House, Cancer.
There are stories about the original Guardians that say they didn’t use Rings to communicate through the Psy. The stories claim they could manipulate Psynergy without external aids. After all, they were once part of the night sky.
Ophiuchus? I chance.
The instant I speak the name, I glimpse a face. A face from my childhood nightmares.
Colorless, hairless, with eyes as black as the night—the thirteenth Guardian has features carved from ice. He flutters in the wind like a clear flame. You are a child. A girl. How dare you look upon me? How did you access this dimension?
I heard a voice . . . coming from Helios.
Impossible! I glimpse a hand reaching toward me through the darkness. Then his whole body blinks into view, solid and glassy. You are a mere mortal. You could not have heard me. Now I will learn the truth for myself.
His hand is so close I almost dodge—then I remember. He can’t touch me in here.
Why did you attack—
But I never get the rest of my question out. His frosty fingers close around my head and squeeze.
I scream as his icy grip burns through me. This can’t be happening—it’s not real, he can’t be touching me—
And yet, I can sense him probing through my thoughts, reviewing my memories. I struggle against him, but he’s like a block of ice. He pulls me in closer, and I see his tongue melting and refreezing in his mouth.
So you are on my tail, are you? His touch infects me with winter, and I feel every organ and muscle within me frosting over.
Let go of me!
Shockingly, he does.
You are no threat. They will never believe you. He glares at me, his eyes like black holes. Even still: Speak of me again, and you will die.