He’s staring into the storm, keeping his eyes on the road as he navigates. “The aliens probably mean to use it to make changes to the planet, wouldn’t you think? Build whatever passes for their homes, even create the right kind of atmosphere they need to breathe or whatever. You and me, we can only make small changes using our thoughts, but if the aliens invented the fog, I’m betting they know how to use it for much bigger stuff.” There’s a downed branch covering half the road ahead, and Elliott carefully slows down and steers around it. “You have to admit it would make for a pretty efficient takeover. Beings to kill the humans; fog to make the planet habitable for the aliens.”

“So the fog is … terraforming Earth,” I conclude, dread lying like an iron weight in my gut.

The car speeds back up—if you can apply the word “speed” to the turtle-crawl Elliott is keeping the Camaro at—after we pass the downed branch. “Right. And maybe we haven’t seen any actual aliens because they aren’t here yet,” he adds. “They could’ve sent the Shatter Ring ahead, let it do all the work, then when we’re all dead and the planet is covered in fog, they move in.”

I stare out the window. A crack of lightning spears through the sky overhead. The fog refracts its light, making it sparkle like it’s magic instead of death. “So the only thing holding the aliens back are the cities that have somehow managed to resist the fog and the Beings,” I guess.

Elliott cuts a glance at me. “The cities that have managed to resist the permanent fog and Beings,” he corrects, his tone sharp, reminding me that my wares have brought plenty of the temporary variety to Cisco Island.

My shoulders tense up, but I ignore him. “You know, we could probably get a prime price for this information once we get to London,” I speculate instead. “The fog could be used to resupply the city, don’t you think? People could walk a little ways into it and think up an abandoned truck of canned food, or something.”

It’s my favorite kind of plan, the type that uses one of my problems—the mind-control fog—to solve another. If I can sell intel this valuable to whoever’s running London I’ll be set for life. I won’t have to bother with black-market mirrors anymore. Not that Ty would approve of my present vocation anyway. Once we’re together again, he’ll likely go right back to looking out for me the way he always has, and his definition of looking out for me tends to include keeping me on the straight and narrow by force when necessary.