“Oh, shi—” Sarah was yanked away, whooshing out of view like she really was a self-propelled Kryptonian. Then Henry yanked her up in an uncommon display of strength.

  She was about to thank him when he shoved her back down to the floor between the kitchen cabinets and the island.

  “Dude!” she said. Her complaint was followed by a barrage of gunfire. Shards of cabinetry burst into the air. But it wasn’t an uncontrolled barrage. It was a duo of three-round bursts.

  Sarah tried to move, but Henry held her back. “Wait.”

  The island’s granite countertop would protect them from bullets until the men leaned up over the top or stepped around it. Either way, they were toast if they didn’t move.

  She struggled against his grip. Was surprised when she couldn’t break free.

  “Listen,” he whispered.

  There were boots on the floor, calm and steady.

  She could hear distant sirens and the rumble of the city far below, sifting through the broken windows at the hall’s end.

  But there was something else. It was subtle and constant, a high-pitched squeal growing louder, melded with an electronic hum.

  The microwave.

  The spray can.

  The explosion wasn’t particularly large. There was no shockwave. But it was loud, sudden, and it kicked out a momentary fireball that would force anyone to take cover. Pinned beneath the counter directly below the microwave, they were safe from the fire and plastic shards, but the distraction would only last a moment.

  This time when she moved, Henry didn’t slow her down. She scrambled to her feet, but stayed low, running like a cat to the dining area. This might have been Henry’s plan; might not have been. He probably didn’t have any kind of plan at all. But the solid redwood table was the last thing in the room that could stop bullets. She upended the table.

  Henry ducked behind it. “You read my mind!”

  “Yeah, but now what?” she said.

  “Pick it up,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Squash them with it!”

  “I’m not strong enough to—”

  “Pretty sure you are,” Henry said. The look in his eyes was strange. In some ways, it resembled the lunacy projected by the cult members’ eyes. Helen had alluded—more than once—that there was something different about them. Something special. Beyond the fact that they were all alone in the world. And as much as she had enjoyed that connection, she wasn’t wallowing in a damn lake of Nutso Flavored Kool-Aid. But Henry… He was buying it. That they were stronger. That they were beasts. That they could heal fast. He was probably close to believing they were bulletproof. He’d be dead soon after that… Then again, he’d step in front of a bullet without thinking twice, either way.

  Speaking of…why was he hiding behind the table with her? It seemed out of character.

  Gunshots rang out. This time it was four three-round busts. The table shook, but held strong. Not even a full-on Rambo style barrage would break its surface.

  But they had nowhere to go. To the right—open space in which to get shot. To the left—a wall. And behind them, a pane of glass and a sixty-story drop.

  “Okay,” Henry said. “So we stay back here and force them to come to us. Then we—” He made a stabbing motion with his kopis.

  It was a shit plan, but the only thing she could think of. She gripped her weapon tight and waited for someone to approach…which they did…at a distance.

  A line of soldiers moved into view, still behind shields, but twenty feet out.

  The first man in line behind the shield-bearer stood. Raised his weapon.

  Sarah did the only thing she could think of—she threw the kopis as hard as she could.

  The weapon sailed through the air, spinning death—and on target. It flew over the shield straight for the standing man’s chest. He was wearing body armor, but it was designed for stopping bullets, not blades. Sarah couldn’t remember how she knew that, but she did.

  What it could block, however, was blunt sword handles. The kopis bounced off the man’s armor and clattered to the floor.

  “Damnit!” Sarah shouted, “I am no freaking good with this kopis bullshit!”

  Stupid last words, she thought, as the man raised his weapon again. She gripped the table leg, hoping to drag the thing kitty-corner, but she doubted she could win the race against a bullet.

  Then—she didn’t have to. “Try this, instead!”

  It’s Helen! Sarah thought, and then she shouted in surprise as a long spear struck the rifle-wielding man’s head, punching straight through—helmet, bone, brain, bone, and helmet again—and finally to the window. The glass didn’t shatter. Instead, it clung to the spear, and the spear to the now limp man.

  There was a moment of stunned silence—and then gunfire.

  26

  Henry leaned out around the table the moment he heard Helen’s voice. He saw her throw the long spear. She wore the same clothes but now held a large, round shield emblazoned with a Spartan mask, an image most people now recognized thanks to the movie 300—whether they saw it or not. The shield was different from the kopis hidden in the coffee table. While the pattern on its fringe looked ancient—Greek or something—the sheen of the metal looked new. A belt around her waist held a sheathed sword. The blade was tapered, but straight and just a little bit longer than the kopis. A weapon of finesse more than a hacking device.

  “Hell, yeah!” he shouted when the spear pinned the man to the window.

  Fear was a stranger to Henry, but he felt an unusual kind of energy billowing from Helen. She was projecting some kind of ‘I’m gonna kill you’ pheromone or something.

  The soldiers reacted to it by forgetting all about the two strangers with swords and focusing all of their attention on Helen.

  She made eye contact with Henry for just a moment, long enough to offer a slight grin and a nod. Their full attention was exactly what she wanted.

  Then she ducked down behind the large, convex shield and the men opened fire. Hot rounds pinged off the angled shield, punching into the walls and the ceiling. But none penetrated. The shield was new—and bulletproof.

  Awesome.

  Henry leaned back behind the table and poked Sarah’s shoulder. She jumped in surprise and spun around.

  “We need to attack,” Henry shouted over the sound of gunfire, and then cut off Sarah’s doubt. “She wants us to attack!”

  He pointed to the spear lodged in the window, holding the man in place. “And she wants you to use that!”

  Sarah looked at the weapon. Henry could feel her revulsion. Really feel it. She didn’t want to pull the spear out of the man’s head. Didn’t want to stab anyone else with it. Didn’t want to get shot, either.

  He thought of a number of encouraging things to shout, but they didn’t have time, so he shoved her instead.

  Sarah was like a bowling ball on a hill. All she needed was a little push in the right direction. Then she barreled forward, a kinetic force.

  She stumbled a step and then—seeing Helen under fire—grasped the spear and yanked it from the glass. The dead soldier slumped to the floor. Spear in hand, Sarah’s whole countenance changed. It looked like it felt comfortable in her hands, the way the kopis felt in his.

  She swung it in a two-handed grip, striking the nearest soldier in the back of the head. The back of his helmet shattered…fucking shattered. He sprawled forward, sliding across the floor.

  Henry didn’t see what happened next. He’d successfully loosed Sarah on their enemies, and now it was his turn. He slid out from behind the table, imagining how he would go about dispatching the three soldiers in the kitchen.

  He had visions about how it would happen. How it would be over in seconds. How he’d stand up when it was done and say something cool. He didn’t know what, but it would be awesome. Hell, he could say, ‘Bananas are Tuesdays in a black hole,’ and it would still sound badass with three dead dudes at his feet.

  Sarah would cringe at the image, but he knew she’d come around when she remembered these were bad guys—cult members—who were out for their blood. And for what?

  We did kill a bunch of them, Henry realized, but only in self-defense. By now, these asshats deserve whatever bad medicine I give them.

  Henry slid toward the nearest soldier, standing between the dining area and the kitchen island, gun and attention trained on Helen.

  “Reloading!” the man said, ejecting his magazine to the floor and reaching for a fresh one.

  It all played out in Henry’s mind. The soldier would buckle, fall back, and land atop the kopis—his own weight driving the blade through armor and flesh.

  And then the moment came.

  Henry kicked out, aiming for the back of the man’s legs.

  He missed.

  Kicked the island instead.

  Pain radiated up his leg. A shout popped from his mouth.

  The soldier was surprised to see him there, but recovered quickly, slapping in the fresh magazine and chambering the first round.

  Henry swung his kopis hard, aiming for the man’s knee. It would be sloppy, but his plan could still work.

  The soldier turned his knee into the strike. The blade struck his hard kneepad, bit into the surface and became wedged.

  Well, this is embarrassing.

  Henry worked to free his weapon even as the soldier brought the rifle around toward his face.

  He kicked out, but the man sidestepped. A futile effort.

  Pitiful, Henry thought, growing angry with himself.

  Some part of his mind was struck by the realization, I should probably yell for help. He heard it like a whisper, but it came and went with the force of a hamster sneeze. Pff.

  Time slowed. He saw the soldier’s finger wrap around the trigger.

  Squeeze.

  A blur of energy sailed into view, striking the soldier’s chest. The man was lifted off the ground, yanked away as though flicked by a giant. He slammed into the kitchen cabinets and fell to the ground. Rising from his chest was a seven-foot-long spear.

  Sarah’s spear.

  “YES!” Henry shouted, pumping a fist in the air, as Sarah sailed over the cabinet. She was a vision, her body fluid, in control.

  One hand on the island’s top, she kicked the second soldier.

  He toppled to the side, helmeted head cracking into the microwave’s shredded remains.

  The next soldier in line reacted quickly, turning his weapon on Sarah.

  Henry acted without thought, scrambling to his feet and diving forward. He rolled over the body of the man with a spear in his chest. Back on his feet, he leaped forward, stabbing out hard with his kopis…and missing again, as the man sidestepped the strike.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  Then a secondary opportunity presented itself. While the first soldier moved out of the way, the last depended on his shield to protect him.

  Henry put everything he had into the strike.

  The curved tip slipped through the transparent polycarbonate shield. The soldier shouted in surprise, but held the shield far enough from his body to not get stabbed.

  Henry didn’t relent, shoving his whole body against the shield. The man resisted, and was twice Henry’s size.

  Why isn’t he just tossing me aside? Henry wondered, and then he realized with a burst of excitement, because he can’t!

  Henry pushed harder, even though he didn’t think it was possible.

  The soldier’s eyes widened.

  His whole body shook.

  “Holy shit!” Henry said, a grin slipping onto his face. “You’re so fucking dead!”

  The man’s eyes turned up in fear. Then his feet came off the ground.

  Henry lifted him, charged, carried him six feet, and slammed the man into the double set of ovens. The man’s arms folded from the impact. The kopis punched through him, and the oven glass.

  “This goose is cooked,” Henry said, then shook his head while looking into the dying man’s eyes. “That’s no good, right?”

  The man gurgled. And then died.

  “Meh,” Henry said. “good enough.”

  Gunfire ripped through the air. Henry ducked as bullets pummeled the cabinets, oven, and the now dead soldier.

  “Henry!” Sarah shouted.

  He looked up to an upside-down view of Sarah, spear stabbed into a soldier’s back. Very dead. She’d killed him while Henry had dealt with goose-man.

  The spray of bullets arced around toward her. But she didn’t flinch back or hide. With all of the boldness reserved for Henry, she stood her ground, and then lifted. When the dead soldier lifted off the ground, Henry understood what was about to happen.

  “I have got to see this,” he said, and he stuck his head up despite the bullets still flying.

  Sarah spun around, spear in hand. With a grunt, she put everything she had into catapulting the man. The spear extended. Snapped to a stop. The soldier didn’t tumble across the room, or sail, or pinwheel—he rocketed. On the far side of the dining area, a wounded soldier with a shield provided cover for the man shooting.

  The flung soldier crashed into them with the force of a human cannonball. The gunshots ceased but were replaced by the cracks of breaking bones and the shouts of men in pain.

  Helen stood.

  Lowered her shield to the side. It wasn’t even scratched by the bullets.

  She surveyed the carnage. Gave a subtle nod.

  “There is potential in you both,” she said.

  “Potential?” Sarah asked, chest heaving for air. “For what? Murdering people?”

  “This wasn’t murder,” Henry said. “It was—”

  “People are dead,” Sarah said. “I killed them. I don’t care if the reason was good, or justified, I don’t like it.” She leveled him with a serious gaze. “And neither should you.”

  “People are dead.” Helen walked toward the last two men alive. They saw her coming. Backed away until they bumped against the large last window. “But it’s not murder.”

  Helen drew her sword. “Whether you like it or not has no bearing on what you did. This…” She motioned to the gore-splattered penthouse. “…was a battlefield.”

  “And we—” With a sudden surge of motion, she crouched and stabbed the sword through the soldier’s shield, his body, and the man behind him. She ground her teeth. Pushed harder until both men fell limp. Then she stood and flicked the sword clean of blood, spritzing it across the floor. Then she sheathed the blade and turned to face them. “—we are at war.”

  27

  “You are at war,” Sarah said. “None of this has anything to do with us. I’m a college dropout who got fired from Dunkin’ Donuts.” She pointed her spear at Henry. “He’s a homeless, foster-kid runaway. We’ve gone through life mostly unnoticed. We have nothing to do with you, or your war. So what if none of us has family? It sucks, but that’s hardly a good reason for us to help you fight it.”

  Sarah couldn’t help feel like she was betraying Helen. She felt a connection to the woman, but there was nothing logical about it. If Helen really gave a shit about them, she’d have taken them someplace safe, not given them weapons and had them fight mercenaries—alone.

  There was more to it than that. Helen hadn’t just forced them to fight. She’d stood back. Observed. She was testing them.

  Helen stood by the window, looking out over Boston. The sun had set, the city lights twinkling to life. Far below, the city strobed with blue light. It wouldn’t be long before the police arrived, and Sarah had no idea if that would be a good thing, or if the fight would start all over again.

  We need to get out of here, she thought, but she refrained from saying it. She wanted answers.

  Henry moved to the window. Stood beside Helen, mimicking her stance. “You really haven’t figured it out?”

  “Figured what out?” Sarah said, stepping up beside them. She didn’t look at the city. She’d seen enough of it. Instead, she stared at Helen, waiting for the woman to notice her.

  “Who she is,” Henry said.

  This got Helen’s attention. Her eyes flicked to Henry.

  In the silence that followed, Sarah heard the howl of wind from the shattered windows on the penthouse’s far side. The breeze was cooling, but also swirling the wretched stench of death.

  “I want her to tell me,” Sarah said.

  “Really?” Henry was incredulous. He held up his weapon. “The kopis.” He motioned to Helen’s shield. “The bashing shield.” He placed his hand on her spear. “This is called a dory.”

  “How do you know that?” Sarah asked.

  “I’m a homeless, foster-kid runaway—thanks for the reminder,” he said. “Not an ignoramus. I know stuff. And these are only surface clues. A place. A time period. The real mystery is the person. The who. And the answer is…well…” He turned to Helen. “…you can tell her.”

  She sagged a bit, looking a little tired. Walked back to the couch, took a seat, perched on the edge beside a body. “This isn’t how I wanted any of this to go. I didn’t know about this...” She nudged the body with her foot. “…that they would strike today.”

  She paused, looking at the dead. “ósoi thymoúntai. That’s what they call themselves. Or just thymoúntai for short. It means, ‘Those who Remember.’”

  “Remember what?” Sarah asked.

  “The Forgotten,” Helen said.

  “Shocker.” Sarah couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “A cryptic answer.”

  “I am the Forgotten,” Helen said. “Capital F.”

  “Oh…” Sarah sensed an image coming together, but she was still missing at least half the puzzle pieces. “Who forgot you?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Because she’s like us,” Henry said, “Remember? But not everyone has forgotten you. I mean, I know who you are.”

  Helen smiled. “I appreciate that, but there is so much more you do not know.”

  “Then tell us, damnit.” Sarah twisted the spear—the dory—in her hands.

  “I’m confident in all things, except for this moment. I have spent lifetimes worrying about it, wondering if it would ever come. I had nearly given up hope.”