I repeated, loudly, “I am Arcana. I am Arcanum. I am the Sun of Atlantis.”

Our most potent vows happened in threes.

I turned in a slow circle. Saw upraised arms, against my light. Saw shocked expressions. Saw the Fool doubled over in uproarious laugher.

I saw Quinn pressing into Addam’s arms, both their eyes reflecting my flames.

Saw Max with both hands over his mouth.

Saw Ciaran dip his chin, eyes to the floor.

Saw Brand. And I saw Brand. And I saw Brand.

I shouted, “I am Arcana. I am Arcanum. I am the Sun of Atlantis!”

My vow pulsed through the chamber in a roar of magic.

The fires died, leaving the Iconsgison in utter, thorough silence.

Spoiler(cliquez pour révéler)Into that silence, I added, “And as a member of this body, I officially petition for a raid on Lord Hanged Man and his holdings.”

Finally we came to . . . I wasn’t sure how to describe it. A barrier, of sorts, though more mental than physical. It affected each of us differently. I simply recognized it; Brand and Addam were influenced by it. They both stopped and looked behind them, as if ready to turn and retreat, without even questioning the impulse.

It was not so easy to mess with my mind, though.

For my kind, the first sign our world was ending came on October 24, 1946.

Over the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico, a V-2 rocket shot sixty-five miles into space to take the first-ever, grainy, black-and-white photo of the curvature of the earth.

As humans celebrated their milestone, my people brooded over what it meant. We watched with mounting unease as satellites and rockets were invented and launched, greedily capturing images of the planet’s continents and waters. The turning point—the final failure of our magics and illusions—came when Yuri Gagarin, a Russian cosmonaut, circled the earth in Vostok 1. From that unimaginable distance, his human eyes succeeded in doing what so many others had not: they pierced our veils. There’s reputedly a sound recording of Gagarin accused of being drunk when he told someone to run and grab a damned atlas.

What he saw was an enormous North Atlantic island, more or less on the same latitude as Massachusetts and Maine, about the size of Japan maybe a little smaller than the state of California.

Atlantis.

So the gig was up, and Atlanteans knew it. My people decided to put on their finest, drop the spells that had kept the homeland hidden for millennia, and reveal themselves to the world.

Two men in jet-black uniforms were patting down a student who stood outside of the metal detectors. There was no exposed skin on any of the men. Their gloves were black, their long-sleeved undershirts stretched tight over large arms, and their boots glistened, even in the shade. Their heads were adorned with matte black helmets, and they reminded him of characters in one of those shoot-’em-up military games. They wore leather utility belts about their waists, and Moss couldn’t recognize a single object attached to them. He thought one was a billy club, but it was too short, too thin. He saw the holster, and the anxiety threaded into his veins, pulsed from his chest up to his throat, and he couldn’t breathe. Guns. Lots of them. Each cop had one. His mind took the image and transported him back to Dawit’s store, to the guns raised upon his father, and he froze. The fear was like cement blocks on his feet.

He could see OAKLAND POLICE DEPARTMENT across the back of one of the uniforms. He knew then that it was over.

He focused on opening his locker, trying to ignore each new slam, each new item dropped on the floor. Moss yanked his locker’s door open right as Mr. Jacobs said, “Officer Hull, there’s no need to be rude.”

“Do I tell you how to do your job?”

Moss turned to stare after that, and Officer Hull was scowling at the assistant principal.

“I’m not telling you how to do your job,” said Mr. Jacobs with a sigh. “But you’re not making this easier on anyone.”

Hull rolled his eyes and returned to Shawna’s locker. She leaned up against the other lockers, rage simmering on her face. Moss shivered, the anxiety back and coursing in his veins, and he reached in his locker to grab his book.

The harsh tone in Hull’s voice reeled him back in. “What’s this?” Hull shouted. “Huh? You got an explanation for it?”

Moss turned. Hull held a ziplock bag up in the air, and Moss’s heart dropped. White pills. Lots of them. Shawna made to grab them, but Hull yanked them out of her reach. “Mr. Jacobs, hold this,” Hull said, passing the baggie to him, and Shawna was stuttering. She couldn’t get the words out of her mouth.

“No, no, no,” Shawna managed to say. “D-d-don’t.”

“What is that?” Hull shouted. “You peddlin’ drugs? In my school?”

“No, I’m not!” Shawna shot back. “I promise! Please, let me explain—”

Hull’s arm shot out, hard, and his forearm hit the spot just below Shawna’s throat, and the man pinned Shawna against a locker, her back hitting the metal so hard that it buckled. Moss dropped his lock on the ground, heard it clatter against the tile, and Shawna tried to yelp. All that came out was a strangled and pathetic sound, like the spit had curdled in her mouth.

“Don’t lie to me!” Hull yelled.

Mr. Jacobs, stunned for a few seconds, leapt forward and tried to pull Hull’s arm off Shawna. “Stop it!” he yelled. “Let him explain!” He caught himself. “Let her explain, I mean!”

He saw the lights first. Blue and red, flashing in a regular pattern. Lots of them, scattered south of the station in the parking lot, and he couldn’t help himself.

Moss had boarded the train in San Francisco that afternoon expecting nothing out of the ordinary, just a normal ride home with his best friend, Esperanza. The train was crowded, plenty of people eager to get back home at the end of the weekend. They’d been lucky to find an empty set of seats near one of the doors. Moss had leaned his bike up against the side of the car and scrambled to claim the spot next to Esperanza. But then their luck had worn off. The train now sat motionless, caught between the Embarcadero station and West Oakland, where both of them were bound. Moss closed his eyes and sighed.

“We’re never going to get off this train, I swear.”

He looked over at Esperanza, who had taken her half of the headphones out from her left ear. Moss could hear the tinny sound of Janelle Monáe as he removed his own earbud. His best friend’s head was thrown back over the seat in frustration. She removed her thick-framed glasses and began to rub her eyes. “This is it,” Esperanza said. “This is where we’ll be stuck for all eternity.”

“Well, we can’t be stuck here forever,” he replied. “They’ll do that … that thing they do where they just redirect us around a train.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Can they even do that here?”

Esperanza sighed while putting her glasses back on. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I haven’t ever been stuck inside the tube itself.”

“It’s giving me the creeps,” he said. “What happens if there’s an earthquake while we’re down here?”She slapped Moss’s arm playfully. “Don’t say that! That practically guarantees it’s going to happen!”

“Then this really is like the start of all good apocalyptic nightmares,” he said.

“Well, we better get used to living here, Moss. There’s no escape for us. Our life as we know it is over! Which means we need to start planning out how we’ll design our new home.”

She stood up, grinning, her white blouse hanging loose on her body, and she gestured above the BART doors next to her. “We’ll definitely have to install some curtains here,” she explained. “I’m thinking … something that’s gray. To accent the dreariness of this place.”

Moss shook his head. “I am a man of high taste,” he said in the most grandiose voice he could manage. This was always their game. “I cannot rest my body on this filth.” He pretended to be deep in thought before exclaiming, “I’ve got it! Bunk beds. They’ll save us space and give the place a youthful atmosphere.”

Esperanza faked a swoon back into her seat. “Moss, you are just so full of good ideas. Plus, it speaks to the reality of the situation: We shall remain celibate for the rest of our lives, as I highly doubt that there are any cute girls for me on this train.”

“Hey, speak for yourself,” Moss shot back. “I’m pretty sure I saw a hella hot dude with a fixie a few cars down.”

“Gonna corner the hipster market on this train, then? Smart, Moss. Very smart.”

“You think so?”

“Well, they’re young and ambitious. Lots of disposable income. Willing to gentrify your neighborhood at the drop of a cupcake.”

Moss laughed at that. “Well, it otherwise seems like there aren’t any cute guys in this whole city that I can stand for five minutes, so I’ll take what I can get.”

“That is surely a tragedy,” Esperanza said. “Well, after being confined to a train car until you wither away and die, but a tragedy nonetheless.”

Since Luke had come through so resoundingly in the name of truth and justice, Elliot actually did feel obliged to go to Trigon practice. It was even more shameful than going to the actual games: the stands were almost empty. It looked as if Elliot had a real interest in Trigon.

Even if Luke had not insisted, though, Elliot did not know if he could actually have forsaken him. Serene had always come to Luke’s Trigon practises. Elliot knew how much Luke missed her, as much as Elliot did himself. He felt like going to Luke’s practises was something he could do for Serene, when he was so desperately worried about her and there was nothing real he could do to help her.

It was not only for Serene. He hated the idea of Luke looking up into the stands and seeing nobody there for him at all.

“Hey, Schafer, good to see you,” said Dale, making his way down to the pitch. “Came to see the new swing I was talking about at lunch?”

“I definitely remember that part of our excellent conversation very clearly,” Elliot said. “And that is absolutely why I am here.”

He sidled over to Carla Summersong, glad to recognize someone with a functioning brain. “Here we are, isn’t it terrible?”

“I know, Trigon, so dull.”

“I think I love you,” Elliot said. “Don’t leave me, but why are you here?”

He got up, pushing his tray aside. They stared at him in dismay.

“Luke, you have hardly eaten anything!” said Serene.

“I’m not hungry,” said Luke.

“Luke, please don’t develop an eating disorder,” Elliot begged. “We do not have any therapists in this world!”

“What’s a therapist? I said I’m not hungry!” said Luke.

Elliot paused. “Don’t eat any therapists. That’s not what they’re for.”

So far magic school was total rubbish.

Elliot sat on the fence bisecting two fields and brooded tragically over his wrongs.

He had been plucked from geography class, one of his most interesting classes, to take some kind of scholarship test out in the wild. Elliot and three other kids from his class had been packed into a van by their harassed-looking French teacher and driven outside the city. Elliot objected because after an hour in a moving vehicle he would be violently sick. The other kids objected because after an hour in a moving vehicle they would be violently sick of Elliot.

Ren bit his lip. He had hoped Anik wouldn't ask. Turning to the window, he looked out at the hawk fountain. “He wants...company. For tonight.” He huffed out half a smile. “Guess that sorted out our problem with the single bed in our room.”

Ren could see Anik's frown out of the corner of his eye.

“He wants to have sex with you?”

Ren sighed. “Yes.”

“What about his wife?”