“STELL.” Victor gritted his teeth as, across the gallery, Eli continued his slow, methodical approach to the dais, where Marcella still held court.

“You understand the importance of power,” she was saying. “What you don’t yet understand is that those ideas of power are outdated.”

Stell dug the gun into Victor’s back. “I’m not letting you get in the way.”

“Is that so?” Victor scanned the crowd.

“That is why I’m here,” continued Marcella. “To open your eyes.”

Eli was almost to the dais as her hand drifted up, coming to rest on the statue’s bronze robes. “To show you what real power—”

Victor chose a man at random, and twisted his nerves.

A scream split the air, and for an instant Marcella’s voice was washed out, the crowd’s interest diverted. In that same instant, Victor rounded, slamming his elbow back into the side of Stell’s head.

Stell’s gun went off, but Victor was already out of the bullet’s path,

moving determinedly toward the platform, and Marcella, and Eli. At the sound of the firearm discharging, the tense crowd had shattered into panic. The guests surged away, a wave of bodies frantically pushing toward the exit. Only Victor and Eli still moved inward, toward the center of the room and the golden figure on her stand.

Victor was almost there when another gunshot went off, the ground sparking as the bullet struck the marble a foot away. He looked up and saw Jonathan up on the balcony, recognized the EO’s intent just in time to see him line up a second shot.

The bullet tore through Victor’s shoulder, the pain hot and white, blood welling instantly.

He swore, reaching for Jonathan’s nerves before the man could fire a third time.

Victor caught them, turned the dial, as he had in the art gallery, and just like in the art gallery, the blue-white light of Jonathan’s forcefield flared up, instantly shielding him. Victor felt his hold slipping, but this time he didn’t let go.

Every object had a shatter point, a limitation to its tensile strength.

Apply enough force, and it would break.

XVIII

THE LAST NIGHT

XIX

THE OLD COURT HOUSE

FOR five years, Victor Vale had lived in Eli’s head. First as a ghost, then as a phantom. But both, Eli realized now, had been critically flawed, a version of his rival that had been trapped in amber, unchanging—like him. The real Victor showed every one of the last five years, and then some, worn thin. He looked sick—just as Eli had suspected. No matter.

He would make things right.

But first—Marcella.

She was stepping down from the statue, her face contorted not with fear but with fury as she headed straight for Eli. “Are you behind this interruption?”

“Apologies,” he said, “I was just so eager to meet you.”

“You’ll regret that,” Marcella sneered, stepping within range.