Chapter 5

He knocked on Nicholas' wooden door again. Two knocks, pause, two knocks, pause, and then a burst of knocks in succession. Then even harder, until the blood pooled within his skin and formed a fresh bruise along his pinky. Patience, dear Mikhail. That's what Nicholas would say, but the panicked feeling had followed Mikhail around all morning, and now it intensified. He had the same dream again. The dream that only visited him when things were off course. Mikhail knocked one last time, ever louder. He tried the door. Locked.

Nicholas' intuition was so strong that all Mikhail had to do was think about stopping by for something, anything, and Nicholas usually met him at the door. He was always at the door. Well, unless he'd left on one of his trips. Was he gone? Mikhail searched his memory, but his memory was shit. Complete mush ever since Crank Palace. At least when he was a Crank he had all his memories. But now, even the things his brain remembered, things he knew for sure, he couldn't pronounciate. Wait, that last word didn't sound quite right in his head. That happened, a lot. Pronounciate?

He reached for his keys to open Nicholas' door, not wasting time to remember which key out of the six in his collection would work, trying them all.

One by one, the keys failed, until the fourth, a red dot painted on the metal, did the trick. "Nicholas?" Mikhail whispered in case he forgot something he should have remembered again, but as soon as the name left his mouth, the overpowering smell of rot filled his every sense, gagging his throat. Mikhail coughed to clear his airway, he couldn't find oxygen. Only decay, and he knew the smell of death all too well from Crank Palace.

Ever since Mikhail's senses came back to what Alexandra called "healthy again," Mikhail believed that there were no good smells left on earth. His sensory nodes performed ten times what they did before and amplified all the worst stench of all the worst cities. Flare pits that smelled like charred skin and bones. Soggy, foggy days that reeked of moldy earth. The odor of sewer water that hung heavy in the air after a storm.

But this . . . Mikhail choked on it.

"Sir?"

He walked through the great room slowly, immediately spotting Nicholas' robe, lifeless on the ground, draped over a cushion. Nicholas would never have done such a thing, discarding his holy robe on the floor, even in his own apartment. Mikhail coughed again, using his own robe to cover his mouth. Finally, when his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of Nicholas' apartment, he realized it wasn't a cushion that Nicholas' robe covered, but a bloated body. It took him a handful of seconds to realize what he was looking at—not because his brain was confused, but because he had never before this moment seen a body without a head.

3, 5, 8, 13, 21 . . .

Sitting at the table, she recited the numbers out loud as she pulled closer the hard-cased, red-leather briefcase with Newt's blood inside. Despite having it in her possession, she still felt anxious. Alexandra tapped the glass case holding Nicholas' head three times, then five times, then eight times while she waited for Mikhail. She understood the power of the digits better than Mikhail and Nicholas ever did. For one thing, Mikhail was too erratic to remember the numbers in their organized sequence. But Alexandra knew the infinite loop of numbers and could recite them at any length. It was as if the digits were born inside of her and she birthed them into existence with every reciting. Each number equaled the sum of the two before it, creating within the string of digits their own frequency sequence. The Evolution was always inside of her, and the time had come to bring it to others now. She'd guide them as their one true God, no longer a divinity of three.

Even though she risked dropping the vial of sealed blood every time she held it, she couldn't help herself as she whispered the digits and pulled out one of the vials.

34, 55, 89, 144 . . .

The small sealed tube grew warm in her hand, a warmth of possibility that fueled her through the coldest nights for the last thirty years. She'd waited for this moment when she'd finally no longer have to answer to Nicholas. When she could choose who was blessed and who would be changed like she once was. Never mind the irony that he'd been the one to choose her, after all.

She often wondered why he did so, chose her of all people all those years ago, but her intentions, even now, were always pure. As pure as met her needs and wants, anyway.

It was Nicholas' intentions that had changed over the years.

What started as a relationship based solely on survival allowed Nicholas to manipulate her until his end. For years she let him think that he was greater than her, but now it was her turn. She'd once read a funny word in an old book: switcheroo. That described it delightfully. Just like the Aurora lights returning to the skies of Alaska, she'd step forward to brighten the world with Subject A4.

But despite her love and appreciation for numbers, she didn't know what in the Mazes of Hell "A4" meant. An arbitrary letter and number that once perhaps held great meaning was just a symbol now. But even numbers had vibrations to them. Did A4 vibrate with the frequency of Newt? She wasn't sure. Four wasn't a holy number. It wasn't in her digits. But the lab tape on the vial, with Newt's name on it, was undeniable; this had to be the sample of what was left after Nicholas injected her and Mikhail each with variated sequences of Newt's DNA. But even three decades later, Alexandra never thought the word "Cure" fit. What it did for Mikhail was much more than that. It was a miracle. A cursed miracle. Parts of Mikhail had returned to human while other parts remained animalistic—like the urges of insanity. Madness. Traits of the Cranks. Things that terrified her even while she subdued them.

What the slightly variated sequence of DNA had done to her was even more astounding. She'd received clear knowledge. Clear as the glass box in which Nicholas' head nestled. Intuition that not only predicted future events but also received elements of the past, as if her very own cells, once upgraded, carried the knowledge of previous civilizations within them. As if the wireless internets of old were alive again and only she had access to them directly from her brain. Preposterous? Yes. True? Also yes.

The re-wiring of her DNA had been subtle but powerful, unlike the hellfire Mikhail had to go through. His body had to physically reproduce cells that were being eaten by disease. His cells undoubtedly held no knowledge. It took him months to be able to speak like himself again, and even after that he was never truly the same. Nightmares haunted him at every sleep. Nicholas expected Alexandra to grovel at his feet day in and day out with gratitude for saving her dear Mikhail, but Alexandra had watched him change twice, and the transition back from The Gone was somehow harder. Because he didn't come all the way back.

To her, he was still gone.

His mind was more fragile than ever, still completely mad. Being asleep in the dreamworld for only ten minutes could sometimes send him spiraling into paranoia. But his visions never made clear sense. And because of her gift she was able to see clearly how the Evolution was meant to unfold. How it was exactly what the world needed to continue. She tried to tell Nicholas and Mikhail the things she knew, but they wouldn't listen. To be fair, they might not have understood, anyway. The world needed more brilliant minds like hers to keep advancing. Visionaries. True Gods and True Goddesses. Damn, she had an ego.

The Evolution wasn't for everyone, to be sure. No. It couldn't just be handed out like loaves of bread on Sunday. There needed to be tough decisions in who advanced and who stayed within the confines of their own minds. And she certainly couldn't let it be wasted on the population already infected with the Flare. It was a sacred thing, the Evolution.

She carefully set the vial back into the leather briefcase.

Years ago she'd have died for the mere chance that Mikhail might live. But now . . . now Alexandra would give him only one chance to join the Evolution or she'd erase him. Erase him without so much as a blink of regret.

Sadness, perhaps. But not regret.

Mikhail controlled his breathing, outside in the crisp Alaskan air, just as Nicholas had once taught him: inhale for three seconds, hold his breath for three seconds, exhale for three seconds. He repeated this without thought. The trinity. The power of three. The breathing was an attempt to control his anger but the efforts were wasted. There was no inhaling and exhaling and no mindful meditation that could calm him now.

His brain clicked with anger. The smell of Nicholas' apartment hung within his nose as if a rat had crawled inside his skull and perished days ago. Thoughts became sounds within his head and those sounds were the symphonies of war. Guns firing. Knives stabbing. Swords swordifying. Mikhail's feet took double the length of steps as he walked to Alexandra's building.

Could a crazed Pilgrim have decapitated Nicholas? Possibly, but there was no doubt in Mikhail's mind that Alexandra was the voice behind the command. When he couldn't find the Coffin, the sealed red-leather case that held Newt's blood, in Nicholas' apartment, he knew who'd taken possession. Her love for power had finally outweighed her love for mankind. Or her love for a kind man. Nicholas was mad, but he was kind. And without his guidance, Alexandra wouldn't be held to any standards . . . and Mikhail wouldn't either. He didn't have the capacity.

He searched his memory for Nicholas' voice. Memories fragmented in Mikhail's mind, blips of conversations, faded glimpses of events, but he knew for sure, surer than sure, that their former master had planned to release the Cure. He'd even warned Mikhail of all the ways Alexandra might try to get in the way. Mikhail ran through his mind like a maze runner to remember what Nicholas told him to do next, but he really only needed to remember one thing.

The Golden Room.

Nicholas insisted that when it came to Alexandra, "She doesn't know what she doesn't know." But how could he not have seen this coming? Or did he know of his own end at Alexandra's hand but wanted to save Mikhail from the unavoidable fear that comes with such knowledge? The walk, the building, stairs, the hallway. He was there.

Heat rushed to Mikhail's hand as his fist formed tight to knock on Alexandra's door, but she opened it before his flesh hit the wood. He immediately smelled vinegar and seaweed. Alexandra drank green tea so potent that the herbs smelled like fish, and she only used vinegar when she was deep cleaning. Cleanliness was next to Godliness, he knew this, but coating things in vinegar didn't make someone a God.

"You're late," Alexandra said as she opened the door further to reveal a table, set with the red-leather Coffin case on top. The Cure. Mikhail inhaled for three full seconds, smelling the putrid vinegar, and held his breath for three seconds. "You're thinking that will help you? Breathing exercises?" She squinted at Mikhail as she tilted her head. He exhaled for three seconds.

"I'm thinking it will help you." He needed to keep his calm and wits about him, couldn't let his anger cause him to mis-speak, couldn't reveal more information than he meant her to know. He too had secrets. And she didn't know what she didn't know.

"You shouldn't worry about me, dear Mikhail." She openly mimicked Nicholas' term of endearment for them both.

"What did you do? Who killed our Great Master?" Mikhail pushed past her and walked closer to the table that held the Cure. Alexandra touched the edge of a black cloth draped over another object, the same way Nicholas' robe had been draped over his dead body. Mikhail shuddered. Behind the smell of vinegar was another smell. Death. Twice in the same hour, that stench.

"He was never our Master. Maybe he controlled you like a puppet, but fate is my Master." With one long sweep, Alexandra pulled the black cloth to reveal a clear glass case. And there it was, inside. The head.

Mikhail coughed. The breath left his lungs so quickly that he couldn't stop. Nicholas' head. The former Godhead's eyes looked right past Mikhail with a terrifying, horrifiable, blank stare.

"You have his head? For what? For this moment?" Mikhail turned away from Alexandra and from the part of Nicholas in the room. He inhaled. Held his breath. Exhaled. Three seconds each.

Alexandra walked over to Mikhail and placed her hand lovingly on his shoulder, but there was no love. Not anymore. "Don't go erratic on me. The principles have done this to Nicholas." Mikhail pulled away from her touch, from all the vinegar in the air. Her apartment would never be clean again—and she would never be a true God. Not like Nicholas. Not like him.

"The principles . . ." He knew them well, woven tightest into his brain, despite his difficulties. But he couldn't understand how Alexandra justified murder as fitting into those principles. Nicholas had created the Godhead with the essence of three truths:

Patience in all things.

Integrity in all acts.

Faith in fate.

Mikhail spun around to face Alexandra, close enough for her to smell the rotting flesh of their Master trapped into the fibers of his robe. "You haven't even planticipated what Nicholas—"

"Planticipated?" Alexandra cut him off with laughter. She never tired of correcting him. So what if he combined two words that meant the same thing. It was just one of many ways she reminded him that he wasn't as gifted as her. Who gave a Crank's ass if he never spoke in front of the people of Alaska like her?

Mikhail had bigger plans. Wars were fought with actions, not words.

He held Alexandra by the shoulders, sure now that she could smell the death still trapped on his clothing. He needed her to be as disgusted by her own crime as he was. "What you did is irre—" Mikhail waited for his brain to catch up with his thoughts, his visions. "Irreversible. Irrevocable." He waited for her to correct him but she didn't.

Alexandra wiggled out of his arms. "Yes. Evolution is unstoppable. You're right."

But that's not what Mikhail meant and she knew it. His eyes followed her as she walked to the red-leather case, disengaged the locks, and swung it open. He knew all her power moves. He knew she couldn't help but dangle that vial of Newt's blood in front of him and drone on and on about the Evolution. He inhaled. Held his breath. Exhaled. Three seconds each.

She traced the vial with her fingers as if to taunt Mikhail. "You can do this with me, you know. We can do this together."

"I'll never be like you." He walked closer to her, close enough to smash the vial in a moment's rage if he so chose. Would he choose? Would he let the crazed part of his brain win? The part that urged him to show the outside world all the chaos he felt within? "You don't understand the process and all of the . . ." He paused, waiting for the train of his thoughts to pick up the passengers of his words. "The . . ."

Alexandra never showed patience. "Faith in fate will always come to be." She taunted the principle as if she'd made it up, as if her manipulations could be called fate.

"And what'll you do with those who don't qualify for your advancements? What about those who qualify but change for the worse?" He'd tried for years to prove to Alexandra that her shift after receiving the DNA upgrade had changed her in a bad way. The sequencing or whatever it was of Newt's blood gave her an arrogance that entered any room before she did. She might refer to them as her gifts, but to Mikhail they were a curse. A lust for power not unlike those scientists of old.

She didn't appear fazed. "Everyone's gifts are different. Just because your gift is—"

He yelled at her. "Life is a gift! I got my life back. What you're doing . . . is selfish. You'll leave half the population behind, and . . ."

He paused as Alexandra lifted the vial out of the case. She dangled it between her fingers like a child with a toy. Except . . .

Except there was something else about that vial. Something he didn't quite understand but understood perfectly at the same time. His thoughts lifted then emptied out of his brain as if an awakening had taken place. He pivoted to the door and avoided her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm losing it. Grieving for Nicholas. I'll . . . I'll go on a pilgrimage to process it all and we'll talk when I get back."

"Pilgrimage. Is that what you call it when you disappear for weeks at a time?" She placed the small container back in the Coffin, perhaps even with a smirk. But for once, her smug look didn't bother him. Mikhail had just found out how little she knew without her even knowing.

"Nicholas was a good man who saved my life and I'll honor him in my own way." He lifted the hood of his robe. "You'll address the people?"

"Don't I always?" Alexandra quickly snapped back.

The people of New Petersburg loved this woman. Trusted her. Worshipped her. But they were fools, all of them. She wasn't as in control as she thought. He looked back, just briefly, to the red-leather case that held the vial with Newt's name sprawled across it, but the number . . . the number belonged to another. A4.

A4 was dear Chuck, as Nicholas called him.

A4 wasn't The Cure.

Alexandra didn't know what she didn't know.