“This is news to me.”

“I believe you have several more pages as of today. More accurate ones. Or the real ones. It’s very possible Nikola’s were planted to mislead, as we have not been able to make sense of them. But more likely they only made sense to her because of how her mind worked. Her Progeny mind . . . so like yours. She was rumored to be very close to finding something before she died. I would like you to find it.”

“Yes. The map. I just gave you half of it!”

“I believe there is something more.”

“The diary.”

“Yes. I believe she encoded its whereabouts in her notes and that only you will be able to make sense of them.”

“The diary’s a myth! The so-called diary is the map you just burned a part of!”

“Myths have their foundation in truth.”

I give a short, incredulous laugh. “You want me to find King Arthur’s sword while I’m at it? The Holy Grail?”

“I don’t care what you find, as long as you deliver me that.”

“I can’t do it,” I blurt.

“And yet you will,” she says. “Or Luka will die.”

“You don’t understand. Even if it’s real, the notes don’t make any sense!” I say, scrambling for purchase, my mind already rushing ahead—to China, Madagascar, anyplace on this planet we can run, fly, or swim, as we should have done a week ago. All of us.

“Look,” I say. “Nikola is Utod. He actually knew her. He took her life. Let him earn his truce with you. Send him on your quest. I’ll give up the notes . . . in exchange for Luka.”

She lowers her head, and for a moment I think she might actually be considering it. But then I see that she has pulled something from within her robes. A phone. Without a word, she places a call.

“Put him on, please,” she says.

The screen blooms to pixelated life. She turns it toward me as the camera pans to a bloodied Luka bound to a chair.

39

It happens in car accidents. Everything slows, seconds like delayed heartbeats. The closest object in hyperfocus . . . everything else fallen away.

Except this is no accident that can be averted with lightning-quick reflexes. My attention snaps to the gun in her other hand, but I have no control over what happens on the other end of the screen.

“Luka, please say hello,” she says.

Luka doesn’t move. For a horrible moment, I actually think he’s dead.

She lifts the gun and points it at me.

My own face stares back from the tiny screen in the corner.

Luka’s head lolls with painful effort. His face is purple, hair matted to a bloody crust on the side of his skull.