“Five hundred ten. Half those idiots never drew blood.”

  “You’ll figure out how.”

  He kissed her. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  She jabbed a finger into his chest. Her nail drew blood.

  “Everything you need is inside here.”

  If their connection wasn’t love, it was the next best thing.

  “Shower with me?”

  “No,” Addis said. “You heard Royal. There’s business to attend. You know where to find me after dark.”

  He did. Already, he couldn’t wait.

  The knife wound had closed before he entered the hot shower. Blood and sweat swirled down the drain.

  Moon confronted the truth: He escaped death by a lucky hair. If those Khazzimeer idiots hadn’t been tentative, they would have burst in while Moon and Addis made love. They’d have filled both Destroyers full of holes. And the ceiling vent? That was an old-school trick. He should have anticipated it. He knew every inch of this house; he and Royal spent thousands of cycles building it with their own hands after flexmatter created the raw materials.

  “Too fucking sloppy,” he muttered as he stepped from the shower. “I have to be faster.” He talked to himself in the mirror. “They have to fear me as much as Royal.”

  The opposition to the Riders’ purpose was growing. They heard the reports, encountered more trouble on the streets. Too many immortals grew fat and lazy over their lifetimes. They didn’t want to confront the consequence of life in Bessios: It wasn’t eternal, after all. Prelude was coming. Either Royal and Moon would prove themselves to be worthy, or they’d fall like the thirty-two other frauds who had tried to rule this ungoverned city.

  None of those pretenders knew how to cross the line. It cost them. Then again, none were Riders.

  Moon took comfort in his distinction. He dressed in his business attire; unlike Royal, he preferred elegance. He pieced together a visual flair featuring a deep blue trench coat with a stylish cut to flow with his swagger. He accessorized with a leather vest sporting gold buttons, and pants which tucked inside leather boots almost knee high. He hid two short blades and holstered a pair of matching pistols with twenty-bullet cartridges.

  The hallway outside his bedroom was free of bodies, but the blood splatters remained.

  “Fucking rules piss me off.”

  He lit his next cigar and joined Royal downstairs.

  23

  R OYAL AND MOON CHOSE the site of their home with an eye toward convenience. They found a plot near the geographic center of Bessios off the main strip. They used their Rider cachet to convince the ancient owners of six thatched huts to abandon their land and rebuild elsewhere. Willing citizens came by the dozens to clear the site. An architect with twelve lifetimes designed the square, unadorned two-story home to the Riders’ specifications. Flexmatter devices, helping hands, and thousands of cycles of toil finished the job.

  The second level consisted of two suites with extended living spaces for personal pursuits. They split the ground level in half. In the rear, a training room featured weights, blades, firing range, and combat circle; in the front, the “living room” functioned as a kitchen, full-service bar, with a small stage for entertainment, and plenty of tables and couches. It was Corvaan’s idea to encourage visitors.

  “Thousands will come to meet,” he said. “They must sit with you. Learn to trust and respect. You will need their help.”

  He was right. Most nights, the living room filled with guests both civil and not. At first, the Destroyers came in huge waves to scope out the so-called future leaders of Bessios and spearhead of Prelude. Of late, however, Royal noticed a greater influx of Observants. Many knew of Moon’s growth into a full-fledged Destroyer and wondered whether they should follow his path. Some feared they would be too weak to fight the collective Overseer during Prelude. Others wondered whether they would be abandoned by the strongest killers after the battle. Without the Overseer, would Bessios continue to exist? Every night, at least one woman arrived with a single wish: To catch Moon’s eye. His reputation as an effective killer was exceeded only by his ability as a lover.

  The latter point stuck in Royal’s craw. He didn’t mind the divided attention; after all, they were partners. Best friends. Closer than brothers. Royal tolerated Moon’s popularity. Most Bessians he knew – even those who didn’t care about such things – admitted Moon was the “most beautiful” man in the city. Natural good looks, of course, but it was also the swagger he exuded. He had perfect fashion sense and a deep, calming voice that evoked a much older, wiser man. Some complimented the way he held his cigar.

  They walked the streets as equals – Moon’s long-held goal. Yet Royal had changed little in his appearance since their arrival. Other than a few tattoos plus nose and ear rings, Royal kept things simple. Moon’s evolution, however, was the subject of many loose tongues.

  They could adore Moon so long as they feared Royal. They had to believe Royal would cross the red line at the appointed time, with Moon at his side. No one who opposed the Riders would survive. If confidence in that future diminished, the chance for liberating the Bessians might die, and the last Creators’ wish would fail.

  These thoughts, among many, stirred in Royal as he finished off breakfast in the giant “living room.” He dredged a slice of bread through the last egg yolks and listened to the harmonic resonance of the countertop flexmatter. The wide, flat device raised four “spouts” from its organic matrix base and formed a cascade barrier while it created a meal to Royal’s order.

  Six eggs over easy, eight sausages, four prawns, mango chutney, two seared green tomatoes, hot chili paste, and diced purple potatoes: Moon’s favorite breakfast. Flex products couldn’t match fresh ingredients, but they were damn close. It was the least Royal could do after disrupting his partner’s blissful morning.

  Moon descended the stairs in his usual cloud of cigar smoke.

  “I should make you clean up that shit,” Moon said.

  Royal pushed aside his breakfast tray and threw his legs up onto the table. He leaned back and braced his arms behind his head.

  “Make me? Them’s big words, partner.”

  Moon stepped behind the bar and approached the flex.

  “I thought I knew all your moves. That was low, even for you.”

  “Hey, I made breakfast. Should be done any second.”

  Moon tucked the cigar between his teeth.

  “Your way of saying sorry?”

  Royal chuckled. “Fuck no.”

  Moon grabbed a green liquor among the shelves of bottles. He opened the plug and poured his morning glass of sanque.

  “Breakfast smells good. Don’t look half bad for flex.”

  “Glad you approve of my cooking.”

  “You’re a funny man, Royal.”

  Moon drank his sanque in one long gulp and burped afterward. When the cascade barrier fell, he grabbed his breakfast dishes off the flex and slipped them onto a tray. He ignored the pitcher of tomato juice nearby and poured a second sanque. He sat down at the table closest to Royal, laid his cigar in a crystalline bowl, and sat over his meal, staring down in silence. He never told Royal what he said during those quiet seconds, and Royal no longer asked.

  “It’s like this.” Moon lifted his head. “I get what you’re doing. You keep me on my paces. You wanna make sure I don’t lose my edge. I love you for that. I do. But don’t pull that shit when I’m with Addis. Make it pure, Royal. Just me against a fucking army. Got it?”

  Royal knew his partner thought long and hard about what to say. Royal didn’t. He just shrugged.

  “Yeah, no. Our enemies won’t care about context or purity.”

  Moon held his fork in the starting position but glared at Royal, who noticed the black eyeliner for the first time.

  “Seriously, Royal? Fine. Maybe I need to send some assholes into your suite. Who you seeing these days?”

  “Scattershot. I sent Ali home before the Khazzimeers showed.”

  Moon didn’t try to withhold his laughter.

  “Ali? That piece of shit? Did he at least shower first?”

  “We have a routine.”

  “Why are you messing around with him? He’s an Observant.”

  Royal sighed. “You’ve grown snobby in your old age. A regular pissant. Ali fills a need. He’s better than most Destroyers I’ve done. He understands I’m in charge.”

  They agreed on one point long ago: Destroyers were superior sex partners. They were aggressive without being deadly and took more chances. Royal had few quality partners among Destroyers, and he personally hated most. He settled on occasion for Ali.

  Moon smiled. “I’ll wait until I know you’re alone with a Destroyer. It’ll be a fair fight.”

  “You do that, partner. Now eat. Corvaan will be here soon.”

  Moments like this almost made Royal feel guilty about what he’d done to Moon. Almost.

  This man bore only a passing resemblance to the kid who died a hero above Hokkaido. Royal remembered the early cycles after the pair ventured out among Bessians and assimilated into a life based on hope, respect, and fear. He thought of those awkward moments when Moon’s naïveté and desperate desire for Royal’s approval turned to insecurity and self-loathing. Royal recalled the time when Corvaan implored him to set Moon free to become a new creature.

  “Morality compromises him,” Corvaan said. “He is too close to love and family. These things, he must abandon. Allow him to indulge in depravity. His worst instincts will become his strength.”

  At the time, Corvaan’s rationale made sense. Royal started down that road after losing his first lover and abandoned all concern for human life while fighting the Swarm. It sent him into a dark, psychotic place but it also showed him the light of a new path: One where killing was as natural as breathing. Where he could summon his most destructive impulses at a second’s notice. He needed Moon to follow a similar road; fortunately, time was not an issue. The metamorphosis could happen trickle by trickle.

  It worked, but counter to logic. Moon evolved into a master fighter with a blade and a gun. His draw had no equal; his speed on his feet and anticipation of enemy maneuvers made him a terrifying opponent. He handled a knife as if born to it.

  He attacked like a bloodthirsty predator and showed no mercy or hesitation in the corral. Destroyers who used to defeat him or at least claim a draw no longer challenged. To see Moon in action gave Royal enormous pride. It also made little sense. For the unmeasured equivalent of decades now, Moon smoked and drank day and night. He satisfied countless sexual partners with rigorous sessions. Yet the energy, drive, and precision for killing did not wane.

  He and Moon often wondered if the Riders guided them without words. Moon wasn’t convinced; Royal was. The Rider’s influence explained how Royal learned within weeks to read mirrors inside The Hold and see the future across multiple universes. The speed of his mastery had shocked Amayas, who needed years of practice. Moon’s success was at least as improbable. The Rider pushed Moon forward. Had to be.

  It must have known Moon would never be able to finish the job without an assist. He and Royal had to act as one and cross the red line into barbarism to take this city and fight gods. Commitment had to be unwavering. Royal knew what Rider would ask of him, and he’d never hesitate. The same might not be said for Moon. Royal believed the other Rider worked hard to hold Moon together body and soul. It must have been a daunting task, even for a god.

  This was their only way out of Bessios. Royal needed a monster at his side; he had no place for guilt.

  Moon’s lifestyle did nothing to blunt his appetite. He cleaned his plates as usual and relit his cigar as Corvaan entered the front door.

  Their mentor walked with the same deliberate, nonchalant pace since the day they met him. He must have owned three pairs of clothes during all these unmeasured years. His shoulders appeared locked in a permanent slouch, dragged down by his ox-like frame. His sloppy hair and beard were still trapped in the same salt-and-pepper dance.

  “Drink?” Royal asked. “Bite to eat?”

  Corvaan waved off the suggestion, his usual response. He stopped short at an empty table and pulled back a chair.

  “Both will join me here. Yes?”

  “You call, we answer,” Royal said.

  When Moon sat down across from Corvaan, he announced:

  “I was about ready to ring your neck this morning.”

  Corvaan didn’t flinch, as if expecting those words.

  “You blamed me for Khazzimeer attack.”

  “Fuck. You heard already?”

  “Bono Khazzimeer is old friend. Seventeen lifetimes. Is sad they did not kill you.”

  Moon laughed through breaths of smoke.

  “I’m a master. They should know better. Not your problem, C. Royal sent those rats.”

  “Those rats,” Royal said, “shot and stabbed you. Different angle, split second, you’re dead. Give the Khazzis a little credit. Master.”

  In the distant past, Moon’s insecurity would have lashed out at the sarcasm. This time, he held his composure, even smiled. Royal returned the favor. Good job, partner.

  “I’ll be better next time. So, what brings you here, C? Royal said you had new business. That’s never good.”

  “Hmm. My trend is consistent. Yes, Moon. I bear difficult news.”

  “Is the enemy making a move?”

  Corvaan nodded. This wasn’t a surprise; it was inevitable. The Riders were bound to be challenged before they tried to take the city.

  “Heinrich and Georgina have consolidated.”

  Royal thought it might happen. Factions that didn’t want to fight the Overseer for liberation had expanded their influence as Royal and Moon solidified their own power base. Moon’s grassroots popularity and Royal’s intimidating skill set frightened many. Heinrich wielded influence within a hardcore faction of Destroyers, while Georgina pressed her case among the most timid Observants. Their messages varied but for one underlying theme: Patriotism toward Bessios.

  “How many you estimate under both flags?” Royal asked.

  “Seven hundred committed. Twice as many new converts. Those may yet be flexible.”

  “Could be worse,” Moon said. “Roughly two thousand? That’s less than three percent of the city. Those two have been trying to stir the pot practically since we came on the scene.”

  Corvaan leveled an empty stare at Moon.

  “Be smart, Moon. These Bessians have stated their preference. All have had half a lifetime to debate the question. Silent citizens pose much larger threat.”

  Royal agreed. “Most are gonna wait to see which way the fucking wind blows. If they decide we’re gonna fail, even our friends will jump ship. The liberationists will turn patriot in a heartbeat. Status quo for all eternity.”

  Moon winced. “Over true freedom? I don’t buy it. They know who we are. We’re the fucking Riders. We’re going to take the city and destroy the Overseer. It’s what the last Creators wanted.”

  “Yet you are two against thousands,” Corvaan said. “Can you defeat so many?”

  “We’ll kill them till we can’t.”

  “Not specific enough.”

  “What do you suggest?” Royal asked. “Should we accelerate?”

  “No rules say when it must be done. Only that it must. No rules for how it must be done. Only that it must.”

  Royal did not like Corvaan’s propensity to go down obtuse, philosophical roads.

  “Hmm. What about the plan you and I discussed a thousand or so cycles back? Inside the corral.”

  Corvaan’s shoulders stiffened as he leaned forward.

  “This is plan we must pursue. Risk is high. Reward is …”

  “Higher. Yeah. That’s why I proposed it.”

  Moon switched between them.

  “What am I missing? Did you assholes talk behind my back?”

  “Yes.” Corvaan shrugged. “Often we do. You know this.”

  “Yeah, and sometimes you and I keep Royal in the dark about shit. I’m talking big picture. We agreed eons ago. When it comes to destiny, we don’t keep secrets. What gives?”

  Royal sighed. “It’s not a secret, Moon. It’s a hypothetical. And the last time Corvaan and I discussed it, you weren’t ready. Look, there are all kinds of ways this takeover can go down. Every option ends in a bloodbath. Right?”

  “Sure. We’ll have to kill a fuckload of people. We can’t have opposition if we’re going to defeat the Overseer.”

  “And you understand what kill means in that context?”

  Moon took a drag on his cigar and blew the smoke out his nose.

  “I do,” he said after a long pause. “Final. Irreversible.”

  “Correct. We cross the line. We make sure they never regen. We do what the pretenders couldn’t. Say it, Moon.”

  “We take their heads.”

  Royal liked Moon’s tone. The words fell easily.

  “Immortals have never murdered their own kind. We’ll be the first. All those lifetimes lost to a blade. It’s the only way they’ll know we’re strong enough to defeat the Overseer.”

  Moon’s jaw tightened.

  “When the moment comes, I’ll be ready. I’ll stand at your side and do my job.”

  “If we fail, they’ll take us down and store us with the other frauds. We’ll live eternity on ice.”

  “Fuck that, Royal. We’re unstoppable. What’s your plan?”

  Royal checked in with Corvaan, who nodded with the go-ahead.

  “It’s dangerous, but it gives us the best damn chance to limit the body count and make our big move in a few less steps. The first part involves me and you and some unfinished business.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’ve been itching to kill me in the corral.”

  Moon grinned. “You mentioned it this morning. You think I’m ready to beat the unbeatable?”

  “Nobody’s ever ready for that kind of shit. Any asshole walks into the corral with me, he dies in front of a thousand Bessians. Odds are, so will you. Win or lose, they need to see your courage. We’ll use it to our advantage.”

  “How?”