A Million Worlds With You

  “He does.” I fiddle with the chain around my neck. “He didn’t ask me where I got this Firebird, even though that should’ve been his first question.”

  “Bloody hell.” Dad exhales sharply. “Well, when you speak to him next, try to figure out how much he knows. Of course you’re going to do that already, aren’t you? But keep on him. Give away nothing. Let him hint and guess.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” I flop down on the sofa, feeling as if I could fall asleep again just from the comforting sound of my parents’ voices. “Thanks, Dad. It’s good to have something to do besides just . . . chasing around after Wicked, even though I can never catch her.”

  Mom says, “Don’t say that. You’re not wasting time, Marguerite.”

  “But the Romeverse is gone—and two other Marguerites died anyway—”

  “And you saved another from a fatal accident in outer space,” Mom insists. “You’re distracting Conley from what the rest of us are doing, and buying us time.”

  “We need that time,” my father adds. “It takes a while for the asymmetries to spread throughout a dimension and protect it fully. So don’t doubt yourself for a moment, sweetheart. You’re doing good work.”

  If they’re talking to the other dimensions, maybe I’m not the only one they’re keeping track of. “Can you tell me where my Paul Markov is?”

  “Still in the Egyptverse,” Mom says. “Building the stabilizer must take a while there, and by now we assume he has to find a way to recharge his Firebird, which must be at low levels. But the technology of that world, if it’s like our own at a similar stage of development, should allow him to do so if he can get to a city, Cairo perhaps—”

  Assume? Of course. Just because they can track us through the dimensions doesn’t mean they can communicate with us. Communication is only possible between worlds at a high enough state of technology. While Paul is in the Egyptverse, he has no idea what else is happening.

  “Does he know I’m alive?” I ask.

  The next pause lasts long enough that I know the answer before my dad says, “He hasn’t learned what happened to the Romeverse at all. So he has no reason to fear for you. Well, besides the homicidal maniac version of you on the loose, which I suppose is reason enough.”

  “He doesn’t know how to follow me. He could only track my Firebird, and that’s going to lead”—my gut sinks—“to the Home Office.”

  “We’ll try to send a warning.” My mother obviously doesn’t want to drag me down. “Hang on, Marguerite. Stay strong.”

  I want to. I will. But it seems like my dangers are multiplying every moment. Like I tried to smash through a glass barrier and am now surrounded by a thousand tiny shards, each one sharp enough to draw blood.

  My invitation to lunch comes as a note hand-delivered by the concierge. My ride is provided by a hulking limo driver who either speaks no English or is fully committed to pretending he doesn’t. I wear jeans and a dark red T-shirt from the depths of my duffel bag, both wrinkled in the extreme. Wyatt Conley isn’t worth the effort of dressing up, much less ironing.

  I’m taken to a restaurant in a sort of closed-circle area with a central green space large enough for a few tropical trees to loom high overhead, and plenty of other greenery frames the other shops and salons. Many of the buildings here have an open-air structure, even the kind of businesses where I’d never expect it, like banks. The road loops around the circle before stretching straight again not far past this restaurant where I’ve been shown to a table just under shady palm fronds.

  No sooner do I pick up the menu than I hear the roar of a V8 engine. The reason I can identify that sound is behind the wheel of the red sports car speeding into the circle, namely Theo. He parks on the far side of the green area, and I’m not surprised to see Wyatt Conley getting out of the passenger side.

  “Limos are elegant, of course,” Conley says as he walks up to me, Theo lagging behind. “But I tend to prefer a sexier ride.”

  “Seems about right.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Men have been using sports cars to compensate for small penises for a long time. Why shouldn’t you?”

  Conley’s eyes narrow, but he collects himself after only a moment. “Enough childishness, Marguerite. It’s time to deal.”

  As he takes his seat, I steal a look at Theo. He looks neither smug nor ashamed. He’s not avoiding my gaze like he did yesterday, but he’s not engaging with me, either. It’s like he’s deep in thought, although I have no idea what could be more important than this. Maybe he really doesn’t care what becomes of me at all.

  A waitress brings us coffees and presents the heavy-bound menus. Conley doesn’t even look at his before laying it across his plate. “I want to be clear about a couple of things from the beginning. One, the offer of a true partnership that I came to you with months ago? That’s no longer on the table. Matters have progressed too far for that. But I think we can still come to terms you’ll find reasonable—and certainly more inviting than the alternative.”

  Pollo means chicken, I think, as I refuse to look away from the menu. Just get something pollo and you’re safe. “I don’t think the offer of a true partnership was ever on the table. But go ahead. Hit me with these exciting terms.”

  “I guarantee your safety, and your family’s, and that of your world’s Paul Markov. We will make no attempt to destroy your home universe, and nobody of your acquaintance will ever be splintered—at least, not because of anybody at Triad. That’s all you get.” Conley sighs with satisfaction. He thinks he’s finally worn me down. “In return, you travel when I want you to, where I want you to, and do what I want you to. If that includes the destruction of a universe, you do it. And if that prospect troubles you, well, just think of it as their world dying to save yours.”

  I don’t say anything, just cover my face with one hand. Is that enough for him to think I’m wavering? If he thinks I’m at least unsure, at least considering what he wants, then maybe he’ll tell Wicked to leave whatever “neutral” universe she’s in so I can get on the move again.

  And if he sees that I’m tired—that I’m afraid of never getting Paul back, that I can’t bear the thought of endangering even one more world—that’s nothing but the truth.

  “You’re going to lose,” Conley continues, his voice quieter now. Deadly. I am finally hearing the snake beneath his skin. “You know your world doesn’t have a chance, not against this dimension and the Home Office united. Of course you won’t admit it. It hurts your pride just having to sit here and take this from me. You think I don’t understand how much you hate me? Do you really think you’re hiding it so well behind your little menu? Give up, Marguerite. You can’t win. All you can do is save yourself and yours. Is swallowing your pride really too much to do for the people you love?”

  I think of the sacrifices I’ve made—the sacrifices Mom, Dad, Paul, and even my Theo have made—and I know that Wyatt Conley has no idea how much someone would do for the people they love. Like this silent, morose Theo at his side, he loves no one but himself.

  “Let me think,” I say. “I have to think.”

  “What is there to think about?” Conley’s voice rises enough for diners at other tables to glance at us, the rude Americans having a fight over lunch. He controls himself better as he adds, “You don’t get a better offer.”

  I shrug. “The Home Office might give me one.”

  Impatiently Wyatt Conley says, “I speak for both of the other two universes of Triad—”

  “You think you do. But I’ve visited the Home Office for myself.” That gaudy, twisted megalopolis had choked off both earth and sky. “And if you think they’re huge fans of yours, wow, are you wrong.”

  Theo lifts his head now. I’ve actually piqued his interest. Conley remains quiet for a few seconds before smirking. “Amateur-level theatrics? I thought you were smarter than that.”

  “It’s not theatrics. It’s the absolute truth.” The one truly pleasant memory I have of the Home Office is of t
he moment when I learned this. “They think you go too far, and they intend to ‘rein you in’ pretty soon. And what was it your Home Office self called you? Hmmm . . . oh, yeah. He called you a ‘total asshole.’ That’s verbatim.”

  The waitress approaches to take our orders, gets a good look at the facial expressions around the table, and then walks off. She’s smart.

  “You’re making this up,” Conley says flatly.

  “If you believed that, you’d be laughing at me now.” It’s safe to put down the menu and spear him with my gaze. “But you know I’m being completely honest. The three founders of Triad in the Home Office loathe you, and they’re counting down the days until they can put you in your place.”

  Conley shoots back, “We have an alliance.”

  “Three founders. One of them is another you who can’t stand you. The other two are my parents. Who love me—any version of me!—a whole lot more than they’ll ever care about you. Face it, Conley. If you want a deal, you’d better improve your offer. Because I know exactly where to go to find a better one.”

  All of his studied casualness drops away. “They gave you that Firebird, didn’t they? I knew it! I knew they wouldn’t leave well enough alone!”

  I hadn’t even thought about that as a cover story, and it’s better than anything I could’ve come up with. “Do you want to go back and reconsider your options?”

  Conley pushes his chair back from the table. He’s always looked like an overgrown middle schooler, and now he’s acting like one. “I’m going to go back and have a few words with the Home Office. In the end, we need only one perfect traveler, and it doesn’t have to be you. If you have a preference for which dimension you’d like to die in, this is the time to speak up. All I can promise you at this point is that your home is going to go up in ash and smoke, and I’m going to enjoy watching it burn.”

  No. Oh, no. I pushed him too far, and I’ve made him desperate. “Wait—I didn’t say you couldn’t make me a better offer—better than the Home Office—”

  “Too late,” he says. “Beck, come with me.”

  “I’m with you, boss.” Theo’s voice sounds oddly distant. “Got the keys in my hand already.”

  “Please.” Tears are coming to my eyes. “Don’t, please!”

  “So you finally learned to beg. I like the sound of that. But not enough to care.” With that, Conley stalks off.

  I slump back in my chair as he and Theo go to the car, my vision blurring as I start to cry. Why did I do that? I was only supposed to be figuring out how much he knew, not pissing him off. It felt so good to tell him off for once—to use the truth against him—and now my big mouth may have condemned my entire dimension to death.

  Would I die with it? If my spirit is in another dimension when my body is destroyed, do I perish or become some kind of . . . ghost?

  At least my world knows how to defend itself. By now surely they’ve created the asymmetry that will protect them. Still, it takes time for that to work; Dad said so this morning. Have they had enough time? If Wyatt Conley moves against them now, can they possibly survive?

  I wipe my face with the napkin, determined to find another landline phone and warn the other worlds of the multiverse what’s about to happen. The sports car’s engine roars to life—that would be Theo behind the wheel, revving it up. I guess even now, with the death of an entire dimension at hand, Theo loves his horsepower. With a squeal of brakes, the sports car pulls out of its parking space and starts coming around the circle.

  But as the car takes the curve, it accelerates, moving so fast I gasp. It passes by me in a red blur, the loud engine not quite drowning out the worried murmurs of the other diners. When the road straightens at the end of the loop, Theo floors it, pushing the car to at least seventy miles per hour and probably more—

  —and he doesn’t take the final curve.

  He doesn’t even try.

  I stare, open-mouthed, as Theo drives the car over the curb, sending it airborne for the split second before it crashes.

  18

  SCREAMS ERUPT FROM EVERYONE AROUND ME AS THE RED sports car smashes into the thick concrete column of the streetlights. The deafening slam of metal shifts into the hiss of a demolished engine, and through the thick smoke I can see the car almost torn in two.

  How could Theo have crashed the car? I think, stunned, before the truth descends:

  Theo crashed on purpose.

  My body and brain can’t agree on what to do. I stand there swaying, wanting to faint, then take a few lurching steps forward before bracing myself against a lamppost to keep myself from falling down. Within a few seconds, though, I’m able to push myself on and run to the wreckage. Someone shouts at me in Spanish, probably warning me to pull back to safety, but Theo explained once that crashed cars only explode in the movies. Nothing short of an explosion could keep me away.

  I come up on the passenger side, where the door has been knocked off, and Conley—

  It’s all I can do not to throw up. I hate this man . . . I mean, I hated him, when he was alive. But looking at him now nauseates me. Never did I need to see Conley’s head split open. I never wanted to learn how brain fluid smells. Now I can never forget it.

  The coldest, most calculating part of my mind—the part Wicked would understand—knows that this dramatically changes the odds. In this dimension, Triad had only one leader, who was also their only perfect traveler. This world will never be a risk to mine again.

  Yet none of that seems important compared to the fact that Theo is somewhere in this wreckage. He did this on purpose, and instinctively I know that he did it for me.

  “Theo?” My voice cracks as I edge around the back of the vehicle. Please let him not be torn up like this, please don’t let him be split open, please, please, please. “Theo, can you hear me?”

  “Meg?”

  Finally I reach the driver’s-side door. Theo slumps in his seat, which hangs unnaturally far back—the impact must have dislodged it. His face is already swollen and purple. Blood trickles from his nose and ears. One of his arms, obviously broken in multiple places, lies limply across the gearshift. With the other, he reaches for me.

  I take his hand, pretending not to notice the blood pooling between our palms. This is the same person who murdered the other me, the same fingers that gripped the scarf he knotted around my throat. Yet I can’t look into his bruised, despairing face—without accepting his grip. His hand is weak and shaky in mine. “Theo, what did you do?”

  “I knew . . . knew I could take him out.” Theo tries to smirk, but then he coughs and winces from the pain. “The son of a bitch never . . . wore his seat belt. Always . . . always wear your—”

  His seat belt cuts into his torso so unnaturally. Several of his ribs must be broken. Maybe his sternum, too. “Hang on. They must’ve called an ambulance, so the doctors will be here any second. Okay? Hang on.”

  “That’s not . . . how this goes.” His head lolls toward me. His eyes seem to meet mine, but I’m not sure he can even see me. “I took a life. You can . . . you can only pay for a life with a life.”

  “Oh, God, Theo—” I hate this Theo so much. I’ve hit him, cursed him, even attempted to kill him. But I’m not made of the kind of stuff that could enjoy watching him die.

  My mind shows me an image from my second night in an alternate dimension: the Londonverse, where I wore the body of a girl who’s already dead. I believed my father had been murdered, and I staggered around drunk in a nightclub in the vain hopes that the alcohol would numb the endless pain inside. Theo came to me then, picked me up in his arms and held me right there in the club, cradling me against his chest while I sobbed, even as the drumbeat throbbed and the dancers swayed around us. He was pretending to be my Theo—manipulating me, even using me—but that night, I know, he genuinely hurt for me too. That moment might have been the realest I ever shared with this Theo, until this one, right now.

  “Conley . . . he . . . he told the other one to move on.” H
e swallows, winces, gasps. “You have to follow her.”

  “I will,” I promise. “Right away.”

  “You asked me . . . how she felt. The other you. While I killed her.” Theo tries to smile, but his cut lip makes it grotesque. “Now I know.”

  He shudders—no, spasms. He coughs again, and the trickle of blood from his nose turns into a heavy flow. His eyes roll up in his head, and his breath rattles in his chest.

  “No,” I squeeze his hand more tightly. As much as I’ve hated him, it turns out I can’t bear to watch him die. “No, Theo, hang on. You can still help us. You can be the one who brings the Triadverse around! You could undo some of the damage—help bring things back. . . .” My voice trails off as I realize he can’t hear me anymore

  The rattle in his chest stops, and for a moment I think that’s it, until Theo whispers, “Meg . . .”

  His hand goes slack in mine. Blood flowing from his nose and ears slows, then stops. Theo’s head falls back, free of the broken car seat. Nobody is here any longer.

  Trembling, I take my hand from his and touch his face. Closing his eyes feels impossibly strange, his eyelids thin and fragile against my fingertips. When I pull back, I see the bloodstains I left behind.

  I stagger away from the wreck, oblivious to the gore dripping from my hand. Far away I hear sirens. Whatever limo driver or security guard or goon Conley had watching me obviously thinks I’m no longer a priority, or figures he’s no longer on anybody’s payroll. At any rate, nobody is trying to capture me or hurt me. I’m on my own in Ecuador, completely alone.

  Think. I reach the coffeehouse on the corner, where all the patrons have gathered to gawp, and sink into one of their woven-cane chairs. You can reach a landline and call your parents again. They’ll come and get you. I mean they’ll come get the Triadverse Marguerite. As soon as I’m sure she’s okay, I intend to follow Theo’s advice and return to pursuing Wicked.