No . . . everything else might be lost to me, but Talulah thought there was a way I could touch magic one last time. ‹Tell me what you need from me. And . . . do me one favor?›

‹Of course. What is it?›

‹Take the bastards down. All of them.›

The world was a kind of technicolor static, spheres of yellow and red floating across an infinite canvas the color of a flooded river back home. It was a bit like the afterimages you get when you rub your eyes after staring at a bright light, but when I tried to blink to clear my vision, nothing happened.

‹Isaac?›

I could have been dreaming. Or possibly dead, though that seemed improbable. There was a familiarity to all of this, reminiscent of having my mind ripped from my body. It was annoying how many times that had happened to me. Separating mind from flesh was surprisingly easy, though reuniting the two could be a bit of a trick.

‹It’s Talulah. Lena’s with us. She’s alive. So is Smudge. You’re a prisoner at New Millennium. I’m hacking your brain, and I need you to remain calm. We’re only going to get one shot at this.›

‹Slow down. What do you mean, hacking my brain?›

‹Kiyoko hooked you into her network. You’ve been there for two days. In a nutshell, they’re reviewing your memories and trying to reverse engineer you and your magic.›

‹Oh.›

‹Once we start breaking you out, I think I can keep Kiyoko in the dark for about ninety seconds. After that, I have no idea what she’ll do to you.›

‹How do I know—›

‹That this isn’t a trick? You don’t. But if I wanted to make you do something—›

‹You could just trigger the pleasure center of my brain. Or the pain center. That makes sense. I suppose there’s not much I can do either way, eh?›

The pause that followed stretched long enough to make me think something had gone wrong. ‹How . . . why did you say that, about the pleasure center of your brain?›

‹I don’t know. It just made sense. Why? I can feel bits of your emotion, and they’re freaking me out.›

I caught the edge of her thoughts. Something about psychic echoes and mental resonance, tied to tremendous guilt and sadness. ‹I’ll explain later. We’re going to create a distraction, but in order for you to get away, they’ll need to think you’re dead. Do you remember reading Debt of Bones when you were in college?›

‹Terry Goodkind, yah. How did you—right, you’re in my brain.› I tried not to think about the implications and how much of my life had become a book for Talulah, Kiyoko, and anyone else to peruse. ‹The death spell?›