“Can you help me?” Sean asked.
“Help you?” Isaiah said.
Sean felt his mind returning as the fog receded. The old barn where he had spent so much time the past few days had grown warm around him, coaxing the aroma of wood smoke from the timber walls, which meant it was now afternoon. He still found this an uncomfortable place for the Animus, but there hadn’t been time to make a dedicated structure near the location site of the dagger, and Isaiah had utilized an existing building instead.
“Help me out?” Sean said.
Isaiah acted as though he hadn’t heard Sean, and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Sean said, jostling his arms against the restraints. “Please.”
But Isaiah continued to ignore him as he strode toward the barn door, and Sean didn’t know what to say. Everything had stopped feeling completely real a long time ago. The last time he had really been himself, without any fog or pain or fear, was back at the Aerie. But ever since leaving that place, he had entered into a strange, parallel-feeling existence, as if the real him might still be out there, but somewhere else.
As Isaiah reached for the doorknob, Sean panicked and raised his voice. “You can’t just leave me here like this!”
That stopped Isaiah. “Yes, I can,” he said. “That is what one does with broken things for which there is no longer any use.”
His answer rendered Sean speechless for a moment, but in that moment Isaiah left the barn without saying another word, and the technicians followed silently after him, leaving Sean alone.
Even then, he struggled to decide if this was really happening or not, or if this was all part of a Bleeding Effect hallucination. Those tended to come in waves and clusters, so he inventoried everything else around him: his wheelchair; the huge bale of rusted wire in the corner; the horse stalls, one empty, one containing a small pile of rags; the pitchfork hanging on two nails on the nearest wooden post; the old-fashioned bicycle with the ridiculously huge front wheel.
It all checked out, the same as it had been for days.
So that meant this was happening. Isaiah had just abandoned him here, still hanging in the Animus, his arms outstretched like a bird. Forever. But that couldn’t be. Isaiah wouldn’t do that. Sean had faith in him.
The minutes passed. Quite a few of them.
He heard the whine of two helicopter rotors gearing up outside, and then the full-throttle beating of the air as they took off. He caught sight of one of them through the gaps in the barn’s roof, and a little while after that, he couldn’t hear them anymore.
Silence gathered around him, and the shadows drifted out of the corners of the barn like smoke. He tested the Animus restraints a few times but knew it would be impossible to free himself.
After he’d hung there for an hour or so, the longest he’d spent in the Animus without being able to move, his shoulders and elbows began to itch. Then they began to ache. After another hour had gone by, they demanded that he move them, but he couldn’t. He tried, straining against the straps and buckles, but nothing brought relief. All he could do to escape the claustrophobia pinning his body down was move his fingers, which he did constantly, making his hands into tight fists and pumping them like he’d done for the nurses who drew his blood in the hospital.
Time passed.
More time.
Hours.
Hours that Isaiah had left him there, and as that time passed, his faith in Isaiah faded until he knew that no one would ever come back for him. It felt as though Sean’s worst fear had come true. He had failed. He was worthless, after all.
He hung there, his head throbbing, and his body screaming and shivering, robbed of the ability to do what bodies were made to do. He had never known torture like this, and he realized he needed to distract his mind from it, or he would either burst into flames or twist himself into a knot he’d never get out of.
He tried thinking of home and his parents. He wondered what they knew, if anything, about where he was, and vaguely remembered talking to them on the phone, on more than one occasion, with Isaiah sitting right next to him.
Next, he tried singing songs to himself. Then he tried shouting and screaming songs to himself. Then he heard shouting and screaming, as if it was on a loop. He decided to recite the alphabet. He recited the alphabet again. And again. The letters took on meaning that had nothing to do with their sounds, as though he wove a spell, summoning a fog that settled over his eyes and his mind, carrying him away.
Black and swollen draugr clustered at his feet, listening to his magic as he hung from the goalpost. The stands were empty, and a vicious wind swept across the field, stretching the yards into miles.
But in the distance, a figure approached, drawing closer, and closer, seeming undisturbed by the wind, or by the undead warriors who would suck on his bones if they could. He came up through their midst until he stood below Sean, and Sean recognized him.
It was Styrbjörn.
“That is a strange tree you are hanging from,” his ancestor said. “Why do you not come down?”
“I can’t. I’m tied up.”
“Break the cords, then.”
“They’re too strong.”
“But you are strong, are you not?”
“Not as strong as you,” Sean said. “Nobody calls me Sean the Strong.”
“Perhaps they should,” Styrbjörn said. “This tree is as nothing if you command it to be so. Break the bonds! Go on, break them!”
“I can’t.”
“Break them! Now!”
Sean closed his eyes and pulled against the restraints, every muscle and cord in his neck, arms, back, shoulders, and chest strained close to tearing.
“That’s it!” Styrbjörn said.
Sean roared, and Styrbjörn roared with him, and the wind howled, until Sean heard a loud groaning, and a snapping, and the goalpost began to buckle and bend.
Styrbjörn nodded his approval, and without bidding farewell, he returned across the field the way he had come, and then the wind began to shear away pieces of the draugr, taking limbs, and teeth, and eyes, until they had been stripped away, and Sean raged alone. He pulled and pulled and pulled—
Something hit him.
Or he hit it. And when he opened his eyes, he was lying at the foot of the Animus, under the safety ring. He was free. Parts of the armature were still strapped to him, but most of it hung above him, dangling, twisted, and broken. He didn’t know exactly what had happened, or how he had done that, but he was free.
After pulling off all the Animus parts still strapped to him, he crawled across the floor of the barn to his wheelchair, which he lifted himself into, and then rolled himself to the barn door. Outside, he saw the massive stone where Styrbjörn had married Thyra, and the grid of rope all around it on the ground that Isaiah had ordered to aid in the excavation. A few agents, technicians, and guards still patrolled the site, and Sean wheeled himself through the camp as quickly and quietly as he could, trying to avoid being seen.
When he reached the parking area at the edge of the camp, he smiled. Isaiah had left in the helicopters, and hadn’t taken any of the vehicles.
There was Poindexter. Sean wheeled toward the SUV, and at his approach, the door opened and the ramp descended.
“Hello, Sean,” the car said.
Sean heaved himself up the ramp, and then maneuvered his chair into the back of the vehicle. “Hello, Poindexter.”
The ramp lifted back into place, and the door closed. “Where would you like to go?” Poindexter asked.
Sean didn’t know. He just knew he needed to get away, while his head was still clear. He was in Sweden, he knew that much. Isaiah had gone to a place called Västerås to get the dagger, and he worried that Victoria might catch up to him at any moment. That probably meant that one of the others, Owen or Javier, or someone, must have had a Viking ancestor as well. Maybe Isaiah was right, and they were in Sweden, too, and if they were, it might be possible to contact them.
“Poin
dexter,” Sean said. “Are you still connected to Abstergo?”
“No,” the vehicle said. “Communications systems are off-line.”
“Can you bring them back online?” Sean asked.
“Yes,” Poindexter said. “One moment …”
Sean waited, periodically glancing out the windows to make sure no one had spotted him, hoping he could figure this out before another wave of Bleeding Effects disoriented him.
“Communications systems online,” the vehicle said. “Is there someone you would like to contact?”
“Can you reach the Aerie facility?” Sean asked. “Or Victoria Bibeau?”
“Yes. Connecting to the Aerie Facility …”
Sean looked at the small monitor in the console in front of him, where simple icons showed a dashed line traveling between a car, a satellite, and a phone. A moment later, Sean heard a dial tone, and then a few moments after that, the screen switched to an image of Victoria. He almost couldn’t believe it. She was right there, staring at him through the monitor. She was the first real thing he felt like he’d seen in weeks.
“Sean?” she said. “How—?”
“Victoria,” Sean said. “Thank God. Listen, I’ve escaped from Isaiah, but I don’t know exactly where I am, or where I need to go. I need you to tell me what to do.”
“Sean?” she said again. “I—I can’t believe this. Okay. Are—are you hurt? Are you okay?”
“My head’s not right,” he said. “Too much time in the Animus, I think. But it comes and goes.”
“Okay, we’ll take care of that. You’re going to be okay. I—I can’t believe you called me. Griffin is there in Sweden with Owen, Grace, and Natalya, but I’ve lost contact with them. No one is answering the phone. I see you’re in a vehicle. Would you be able to go to their last location? You can’t … can you drive?”
“I have a car that can drive,” Sean said. “Just say where you want me to go. Poindexter, listen up.”
Victoria read out some coordinates, and the vehicle locked them in. “Estimated arrival time in forty-seven minutes, thirteen seconds,” Poindexter said, shifting into gear.
With that, Sean was on the road, leaving Isaiah’s camp behind, driving through a dense forest. The sunlight flashed repeatedly through the leaves and branches, strobing his eyes, and Sean covered his face to shut it out. But when he did that, he saw another forest, this one full of poisoned thorns, and rampaging bulls among the trees, and when he opened his eyes, the animals were still there, charging down the road after him.
“Victoria?” he said. “Are you still there?”
“I am,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere until I get all of you back safely.”
“You’re a psychiatrist, right?” he said.
She paused. “I am.”
Without warning, Sean felt his voice crack. “I think I need help.”
Owen felt as if he was going to throw up. But he kept going, because there wasn’t anything else he could do, and he wasn’t going to do nothing. Natalya and Grace had fallen silent, and he thought they might be in shock. He wanted to wake them up. He wanted them to fight, even if they couldn’t win.
“Seriously?” he said, even though Isaiah now stood in front of him with a gun. “You just compared yourself to a Norse myth? Hey, Grace, what happens to that wolf in the end?”
Grace looked over at him, but she didn’t say anything. Owen waited, suddenly feeling alone and exposed. But then she cleared her throat.
“One of Odin’s sons kills him,” she said. “Rips his jaws apart.”
“Right.” Owen gave Grace a little nod. Then he turned back to Isaiah. “So if you’re really that wolf, I guess you have that to look forward to.”
Isaiah didn’t react, either with anger or amusement. Instead, he placed a hand on Owen’s shoulder in a paternal gesture, and Owen recoiled and shrugged him off.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, even though he knew how ridiculous that sounded when Isaiah held the gun. But Owen did have the hidden blade. The only problem was, as soon as he used it on Isaiah, all those agents would open fire, killing Grace and Natalya, and him.
“Do you remember the simulation I showed you of your father?” Isaiah asked.
After just losing Griffin, the question about Owen’s dad landed an emotional blow to his gut, and his confidence doubled over. In spite of the way he’d been mouthing off, he was barely keeping it together. He couldn’t deal with Isaiah bringing up his dad. Not right now.
“Surely you’ve figured out that I manipulated that memory, yes?” Isaiah said.
Owen refused to say anything back. He couldn’t lose control.
“Would you like to know what I saw in the real memory?” Isaiah bent down again and looked Owen in the eyes, but this time, Owen refused to look back. Whatever Isaiah was about to say, he didn’t want to see it, and he didn’t want to hear it. But he couldn’t stop it. “There was no Assassin there,” Isaiah said. “Your father—”
“Shut up!” Natalya said, the first thing she had uttered since Isaiah had captured them. “Just shut up and leave him alone.”
“Why are you picking on him like that?” Grace added. “You already got the gun. Whatever you were about to say just makes you pathetic.”
Isaiah took a few steps backward from the three of them, tapping the barrel of the pistol against his thigh. Owen was glad to have Grace and Natalya back, even if this was it.
But Isaiah didn’t point the gun at them like Owen expected him to. Instead, he just paced in front of them for a few moments, looking down at the road.
“Back in Mongolia,” he finally said, “I saw it all. What the Trident showed you, it showed me also.” He pivoted to face them. “Before I killed that Assassin with the prong, I saw what she feared more than anything else. Would you like to know what it was?”
“No,” Natalya said, a guttural sound of rage.
“She feared her own father,” Isaiah said. “The things he did to her. She relived them all. She died with that in her mind—”
Natalya made a choking sound, and Owen looked over. She was crying softly.
“Shut your mouth,” he said. “Just do what you’re going to do.”
But Isaiah ignored him and walked up close to Natalya, his back straight, looking down at her. She didn’t look up.
“Yes,” he said. “Her death is your fault, just like that nightmare in which your grandparents are murdered. There will always be something you could have done differently.”
Natalya’s shoulders heaved once, twice, with her crying.
“Don’t listen to him,” Owen said. “Natalya, it’s not real.” But even as he said it, he realized it was the wrong thing to say. Yanmei’s death had been very real.
Isaiah turned toward Grace, and strolled down to stand before her. “And you. Know this: you can’t save your brother, no matter how hard you try. After this, I’m going to go to the Aerie to find him.”
Grace lunged at him, but Isaiah stopped her by raising the pistol to her forehead. She held up her hands and backed off, but the rage-glare didn’t leave her eyes.
“If you hurt him …” she said.
“Oh, do finish that thought,” Isaiah said. Then he waited.
But Grace said nothing more, and Isaiah turned away to face Owen, who knew exactly what was coming. He tried to prepare himself for it as Isaiah came closer. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t real, and it wasn’t true.
“As for you, Owen,” Isaiah said. “What can I tell you that you don’t already know? You just won’t admit it to yourself. But your father did it all. Alone. In cold blood.” He leaned in closer. “I’m talking about your father’s own memories of what he did, of course. He actually sat and watched that security guard bleed out. He was surprised at how quickly it was over.”
Owen bit down so hard he thought his teeth would shatter. But he offered Isaiah no other reaction. No other satisfaction. Isaiah was lying about his dad. His dad was innocent.
He was
innocent.
He was innocent.
He was innocent.
But even as Owen told himself that once again, for the millionth millionth time, his mantra, it felt empty. He realized he didn’t know who he was trying to convince. He realized he didn’t know if he believed it anymore. He wasn’t sure he had ever believed it, and thought that maybe this whole time, he had been angry at the wrong people, and blamed them for his own mistakes.
His mother wasn’t weak.
He was.
His grandparents weren’t wrongheaded and stubborn.
He was the fool who had lied to himself, and now he didn’t know what to do with the truth.
Isaiah stepped away again, backing up to look the three of them over, a surveyor measuring impact craters. Then he raised the pistol, and Owen knew this was his last moment, but Isaiah stopped partway, and Owen heard the sound of a vehicle coming.
The sound of it stirred him up.
He looked to his left as two bright headlights sliced around a bend in the road, and then a large white SUV came barreling right for them. He reached out with both hands, grabbing Natalya’s arm with one, and Grace’s arm with the other, and dragged them backward so the vehicle would pass between them and Isaiah. Owen had thought maybe they could use the distraction to escape into the forest on the other side of the road.
But instead, the SUV screeched and stopped right in front of them. The side door opened, and there was Sean.
“Get in!” he said.
Natalya’s mouth gaped. “Sean?”
“Hurry!” he said.
Owen jumped into the front passenger seat, and Grace and Natalya climbed over Sean into the back. Then Owen saw the empty driver seat.
“What the hell?”
Gunshots exploded, rocking the SUV with their pinpoint strikes. But apparently the car was bulletproof.
“Poindexter,” Sean said. “Drive. Fast.”
“Yes, Sean,” said a computerized voice. The SUV floored its own gas, and the car gunned it down the road, pulling Owen deeper into his seat as the forest became a blur of black and gray in the darkness.