A calm has settled over the cavern. The fighting has stopped, and the necropolis has fallen back into silence. A sputtering golden light flares from before the throne, striping the necropolis with the long shadows of obsidian warriors. The surviving soldiers are once again oriented toward a single point—honoring their leader.
“Peter,” I call, quietly, mouth still hidden in my shirt. I can’t see anything nearby in this fog of dust—all of it washed out by a golden nebula of light near the throne. Shining in his radiance, Leizu is kneeling before the Yellow Emperor.
“Peter, where are you?”
The broken body of an obsidian warrior lies at my feet, its arms and legs pulverized to black dust. Staring sightlessly, its lips begin to move. The soldier is mouthing the words of its emperor as he speaks to Leizu.
“Now,” he says, hard lips biting. “We are the Oneness—”
Tish, tish, tish.
Something is snapping. I cover my ears as the explosive echoes wash over me. Peculiar flurries of dust are pluming from one of the tall stone pillars that ring the throne. Wobbling in the middle, the slender column is breaking, the cylinders of stacked stone already raining down like dark meteorites.
And now I see him—Peter, head down, arms out as he shoves.
The forms of Huangdi and Leizu are still enveloped in a golden haze, dusty shafts of light that illuminate shadows of falling stone. The two of them are looking at each other, hands clasped together as the pillar collapses over them. I fall to my knees as a wave of rubble and shattered stone snuffs out the golden light, sending a black wave of dust cascading toward me like water from a broken dam.
The stars disappear, leaving the necropolis in total darkness.
I know the cave-in is finally over when I can hear my own coughing. Staggering through the cloud of rock dust, I trip and fall to my knees. On all fours, I do my best to breathe through my filthy shirt.
A rustling, slithering sound is rising.
With a shaking hand, I feel for the headlamp strapped to my forehead. Clicking the light on, the powdery cavern floor before my face illuminates. Lifting my gaze, the white beam pushes into swirling gray dust motes. I stifle a moan when I notice the black shapes, the remains of shattered soldiers, crawling toward me on broken limbs, eternally stoic faces chipped and crumbling.
I scramble backward, stopping as my back presses into a familiar bulk. Turning, I see a gloved hand, gray with dust, reaching to take mine.
“Come, June,” says Peter. “It is over.”
EPILOGUE
LONDON, PRESENT
My hand keeps going back to the spot on my chest where something is missing. I never realized it, but over the years, the relic became a part of me. It was a secret I had from the whole world, and a bond to someone I loved very much. Now that it’s gone, I’m not sure what’s going to fill the empty space.
This ridiculous diamond necklace of Peter’s isn’t going to cut it.
I step out of a black car, shoulder blades straining against the fabric of a complicated silver dress. A tailor met me at the penthouse where I’m staying in London, tut-tutting at the bruises and scrapes all over my body. In minutes, he made this dress fit like a second skin. I left the hotel wondering if the same tailor ever used his talent to stitch together other kinds of skins, ones made of plastic and carbon fiber.
I can’t help looking at the world in the way of an avtomat now, as a place where diamonds and dresses are not as important as relics and armor. It’s a point of view that suits me just fine.
Crossing a winding cobblestoned street, I approach a nondescript wooden door embedded in the wall of a stone building. I was told this was supposed to be a restaurant, but I don’t see any hint of it—just a small plaque that reads Pontack’s.
I resist the urge to pull out my cedalion and take another look.
A large purse swings on my shoulder as I push the narrow door open and step into a dim foyer. The lights are low in here, candles and kerosene, the hissing lanterns hanging from iron hooks below chandeliers heaped with melting candles.
An attendant nods to me, silently leading the way past a series of alcoves, each shielded by wooden latticework, holding tables occupied by hidden diners speaking in low, indistinct voices. We move past them and through an arched doorway set in the stone facade of another, even older building.
I blink at the small room, even as the attendant closes the door behind me.
The wood paneling, furniture, friezes on the walls—all of it is centuries old. A golden chandelier burns handmade candles, each holder cupped in a partial mirror. The ceiling is painted classically, with images of angels and cherubs and lambs. A round dinner table sits under the chandelier.
I feel as if I have time traveled, or stepped into a museum.
In the corner, a young man puts his hand to a primitive harp. His cheek is pressed against the shoulder of the instrument, fingers fluttering over the strings. Dulcet tones settle over the room like a gentle snowfall.
“Hello again, Elena,” I say. “Nice place.”
Sitting at the table behind an elaborate tea setting, the girl sees my stunned face and smiles. She picks up a teapot and begins to pour me a cup.
“I sometimes have a hard time letting go of the past,” Elena says, shrugging. “Please, sit.”
Reminding myself to breathe, I lower myself onto a seat and wince as it creaks. The chairs in this room are older than my country. I can’t even begin to estimate the cost of all the artwork and rugs and artifacts that line the walls. Then again, the young lady sitting across from me is worth more than all of it combined.
And, of course, her brother.
“Peter,” I say. “You look better than the last time I saw you.”
Since our return to London from China, the avtomat has had his wounds professionally repaired. His face is smooth, eyes bright. There isn’t a trace of red clay dust on him. Wearing new clothes and a half smile, you’d never know that he was capable of flipping a car upside down with his bare hands.
“Elena was kind enough to allow me to use her people,” he says.
“Might as well,” says the girl, sarcastic. “It’s the end of the world, after all.”
I lean my elbows on the table.
“About that…” I begin.
Across the circular table, two avtomat stare back at me. One is a young girl, beautiful and relentlessly skeptical. The other is a man with broad shoulders, a bit dour looking under his mustache. A faint scar is still just visible, high on his cheek. These two creatures resemble each other, like siblings, although any similarity is a result of their own decisions, conscious or otherwise.
The three of us form a triangle at the table. I find my voice sticks to the back of my throat as I realize that it’s really true—I’m a part of this hidden world.
And now, I’ve got a chance to save it.
“We found something in the necropolis,” I continue, clearing my throat.
Reaching into my purse, I pull out the sun disk. Elena regards it cautiously, running her eyes across the circular outline of the device.
“The breath of life,” she says, quietly.
“It’s not a legend, after all. This device recharged Huangdi’s relic and preserved his memory. And I think I can figure out how to make it work again.”