Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(97)

“Hard to breathe…I need my mask.”

Coyotl gives him a hard pat on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Kev…in a few minutes, the mask won’t matter.”

The old one’s red eyes seem to go clear for a moment. He stares at my O’Malley.

“By the gods,” the old thing says. “It’s…it’s me.”

The young and the ancient lock eyes.

A low growl starts in my O’Malley’s throat, builds to a scream as he starts to thrash against his restraints.

Matilda lowers the rod.

My O’Malley again goes rigid. He shudders and bucks, tries to beg her to stop but his mouth won’t form words.

“You horrible BITCH,” I roar. “Stop it or I’ll kill you!”

Matilda turns to me, smacks the rod down on my thigh. The charge sets my body ablaze. I try not to scream—I fail.

She lifts the rod.

“No cursing,” she says. “Children should know the rules.”

Old O’Malley is half giggling, half coughing.

“My shell is so strong,” he says. “So much vigor!”

Everything grows blurry as tears fill my eyes.

“Please, Matilda!” I’ll beg, I’ll plead, I’ll sacrifice myself, whatever it takes. “Let him go and I swear I’ll let you do it to me.”

My O’Malley’s head turns fast to face me, his features contorted with both fear and anger. “Em, no! Don’t promise them anything!”



Even now, with blood on his lips from where he bit through them, his cheeks streaked with tears, he is beautiful. How could I not have told this boy that I loved him? I am desperate for him to live, even if that means my own death.

I tear my eyes away from him, force myself to look at her.

“Matilda, please.” My voice is weak, subservient. “I swear, I’ll do whatever you want. I won’t fight.”

She pats my head, makes that tsk-tsk sound with her unseen mouth.

“Oh, my dear, you can fight all you like—it won’t make any difference.”

“Preparations complete,” Old Smith calls out. “Ometeotl?”

“Ready for instructions, Doctor,” the room answers.

“Perform transference power-up and preflight checks.”

The entire room hums, a long droning sound that makes my hair stand on end.

Coyotl walks over to my O’Malley. The overwritten circle-star leans close, the expression of gleeful hate something I would have never thought could exist on his face.

“This is going to hurt,” Coyotl says. His words ring with a sick joy. “So much.”

My O’Malley can’t fight anymore. He has nothing left. All he can do is cry.

“Em, please,” he says in a whisper. “Help me.”

Sobs rack my body. I can’t do anything—I am powerless. Leader, empress, monster, friend, enemy…when it matters most, I am none of those things.

I am nothing.

I am just a circle.



I am empty.

Old O’Malley coughs, harder than before, struggles to draw breath.

“I hope…my old self hasn’t changed too much,” he says. “I was never a crybaby like that.”

Matilda laughs. It sounds like my laugh.

“Kevin, you’ve been a lying, manipulating, backstabbing crybaby for a thousand years,” she says. “Some things don’t change.”

The room darkens. Old Smith raises her arms, and they are bathed in color. The same lights that made Spingate glow like an angel soak into Old Smith’s cratered skin, make her look like a moving statue that has disintegrated and blackened with age.

“Ometeotl, commence final bio-scan of receptacle.”

“Scanning, Doctor Smith.”

The humming increases, almost drowns out my O’Malley’s sobs and Old O’Malley’s cough.

What little rage that still burns inside me is extinguished by a wave of hopelessness. My friend is going to die. He’s an arm’s length away, if only I could reach out to him. Right here, right now, Kevin O’Malley will cease to exist. And I can’t stop it.

“Bio-scan complete, Doctor Smith,” the room says. “Zero risk factors. Ready to commence upon your order.”

Old Smith lowers her glowing hands. “Commence transference.”

The humming grows louder, fills the room, bounces off the ceiling and walls.

My O’Malley thrashes, but not of his own will—his body is reacting: twitching and trembling, quivering and lurching.

They’re killing him.

The hum goes on forever. It fills my head, rattles my ears and teeth. It blocks out everything. I want my hands loose, not so I can escape but so I can drive my fingers into my ears, try to block that sound of death.



And then, the volume lowers, lowers, lowers…the humming stops.

I look at my friend. He’s on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling. His chest heaves. He blinks rapidly, shakes his head. He wiggles his nose, curls his lips, clicks his teeth as if he’s trying out his face for the first time.

Please-please-please let it have failed…

O’Malley’s head turns toward me. He smiles—but it isn’t his smile.

“Hello, young lady.”