Mae took up a protective stance in front of Justin and pointed her gun at the man’s chest. It took him several moments to notice, and he came to a slow halt.

“Don’t come any further,” she warned.

“You,” he repeated. “You’re electi. Come. You can help. You can help her.”

“Help who?” asked Justin.

“Mama Orane. Please. She’s in bad shape.” Grief and worry lined the man’s face as he looked pleadingly between Justin and Mae.

“I don’t think he’s a threat,” Justin said.

Mae decided to agree and slowly followed when the bodyguard returned to the house, though she kept her gun out the whole time.

Inside, they found a flurry of drumming, chanting, and incense—much like they had at the ceremony. Only, whereas that had been celebratory, the main room was now thick with tension and grief. The bodyguard led them through the crowd, one composed not of tourists, but of worried friends and neighbors. He spoke rapidly in French, clearing a path to a staircase on the far side of the room. After a quick glance to make sure Justin and Mae still followed, he hurried up to a second floor that showed where the tourist money had been going.

Modern furniture, electricity, and tech pieces that were antiquated by Gemman standards but state-of-the-art around here. Justin would’ve liked to study it all more closely, but his attention soon snapped to a bedroom they were ushered into, the center of which held a flower-strewn bed.

And Mama Orane.

Justin felt a lurch in his stomach as he took in the woman’s blood-stained clothes. Violence might be Mae’s thing, but it was nothing he would be ever be comfortable around. Someone had done a neat job of wrapping Mama Orane’s stomach with bandages, but they were already wet and slick with blood seeping out from beneath. Her skin was ashen and sweaty, her eyes unfocused.

“Help her,” begged the man who’d led them in.

“She needs a doctor,” said Justin.

“We sent for him,” said a young woman, sitting by the bed. It was the pretty assistant from earlier. “I took care of her in the meantime. I wrapped her wounds and said all the prayers and songs.”

Mae grimaced. “Prayers and—never mind. What happened? Was she shot?”

“Stabbed,” said the assistant. “By a red-haired woman—one of the ones that was here earlier.”

Ask what she was stabbed with, ordered Magnus.

“What kind of blade?” Justin asked.

The assistant held her hands about a foot-and-a-half apart. “A dagger. It happened so fast—I could barely see it. It looked like there were bugs on it. We were sitting down for dinner, and she was gone before—”

“Bugs?” interrupted Mae.

The girl nodded. “Like golden beetles.”

Justin and Mae exchanged a brief glance. Before either could speak, Mama Orane stirred, causing the girl and the bodyguard to go rigid. Mama Orane blinked a few times and managed to focus on him and Mae.

“H-hello, electi,” she said. A trickle of blood appeared at her lips.

That was to both of us. She knows me this time, Justin told the ravens.

She’s dying, said Magnus. Those leaving this world have greater senses. She can see through the powers hiding you now.

Mama Orane’s assistant seemed to have the same idea the bodyguard had. “You can heal her?” she asked hopefully.

Mama Orane tsked. “That is not their province. And it’s too late anyway.” She tried to speak again but had difficulty forming the words.

Her assistant offered her a small sip of water. “They didn’t come for you?”

“They did.” Mae’s eyes flicked to the blood. “But not in the same way.”

“I’m sorry.” Mama Orane swallowed and closed her eyes. “They came to find me, and I called you out. I identified you to them. It was careless, though not as careless as parading myself around. El Diable always warned me, and I wouldn’t listen. This is no more than I deserve.”

The big, hulking bodyguard stifled a sob.

“Who are they?” asked Justin. “Who do they serve?”

Mama Orane opened her eyes again. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. They are other electi, and they are about their master’s business.”

“Gods want to convert the elect and get them on their side,” said Justin. “Why would they try to kill them—us?”

“Because not every electi can be c—c—” Coughing broke her up until more water was offered. “—converted. Better then for a god to eliminate his rival’s servants. Better for other electi to eliminate their own competition.”

“The War of the Elect,” said Mae in sudden understanding.

“Because we totally need something else to worry about,” muttered Justin.

“Serve your gods well,” said Mama Orane, her voice raspy now.

“For others will be serving theirs.”

Mae opened her mouth to speak, and Justin was almost certain she was going to issue her usual stance about how she had no god. She seemed to think better of it and paused, saying instead, “You need to rest until the doctor gets here.”

“No doctor can help me now.” Mama Orane’s eyes closed, and she went so still that Justin thought she’d already died. They suddenly fluttered open as she focused on him. “But perhaps you will lend me a guide to take me to my gods.”

Justin didn’t know what she meant, and then Magnus said, I will go. The raven paused and then added reluctantly, If you will let me.

Yes, said Justin. Before he could even really wonder what he’d agreed to, he felt the searing pain in his skull that happened whenever one of the ravens left him. Mama Orane’s eyes opened wide, and a light filled her face. It was almost enough to make one think she might make a miraculous recovery. Then—she exhaled and grew still again.

Everything about her seemed to diminish as she sank into the bed. Her assistant choked and buried her face in the shoulder of the bodyguard, who was openly weeping.

Justin felt Magnus return to him. It is done, said the raven.

Mae’s greenish-blue eyes studied Mama Orane with a mix of sorrow and disdain. “This wouldn’t have happened in the RUNA.”

Justin knew she meant dying without medical care, but his mind was still on what had actually precipitated this: the elect preying on each other to further their gods’ causes. “I have a feeling it’s going to happen a lot more than we’d like in the RUNA.” He touched Mae’s arm. “Come on. It’s time to go home.”

CHAPTER 3

Security Type Stuff

The Institute for Creative Minds and Experiential Thinking was the third private school that Tessa Cruz had attended. Counting her brief stint in one of the public schools, it was her fourth school overall since arriving in the RUNA a few months ago. This was the first one she’d picked out herself, and Justin hadn’t been thrilled about it. “It sounds like the kind of place that breeds political dissidents,” he’d told her.

He’d been even more dismayed when he learned what a loose teaching style it had, and his sister Cynthia had laughed this off as the real reason he was upset. “He used to teach,” she’d reminded Tessa with an eye roll. “So he expects everyone to be able to sit in orderly rows and dote on their teacher’s every word, just as I’m sure his adoring students did.”

Tessa believed that but also suspected more to Justin’s dislike of the school. He’d always felt he owed a debt to Tessa’s father for helping during Justin’s four-year Panamanian exile. Justin had decided the best way to repay this debt was by taking Tessa—whom he believed to be too smart and talented for her provincial background—and bringing her back with him for a dose of Gemman education and culture. The terms of her student visa required her to attend school, and she knew Justin felt a “normal” Gemman education was the best way to prepare her for the civilized world. She would’ve liked to please him in that, but there was no denying she just hadn’t fit in to more traditional programs.

Tessa liked this new school, mostly because it left her alone to do what she wanted. The Institute’s philosophy was simple. “Creative Minds” could be trusted to pursue their own interests. They could also be trusted to pass the country’s standardized tests that were required in all schools, public or private, with high scores that maintained the Institute’s reputation. Students who could not do this were politely told to leave.

And so, Tessa found her days split. Half the periods were free time devoted to self-chosen projects in humanities, social issues, and science. The rest of the school day was set aside to prepare for the tests, which involved endlessly going over sample questions and utilizing tutors if needed.

Perhaps most importantly, Tessa found she was treated with civility. The faculty was paid very well for that. Some occasionally eyed her curiously, but most of the teachers were pragmatic about the matter. Being provincial meant less than the money and influence it took to get you into the school in the first place. If you were in, you were in. Her fellow students, though not paid to accept her, nonetheless operated on that same principle that if she was there, she deserved it.

Most left her alone. The popular belief was that she was the daughter of some important ambassador from Panama and could eventually be a useful contact.

“You should get an expert, dear.”

Tessa looked up. She was curled up on a giant puffed cushion on the floor (Creative Minds didn’t need ordinary desks), scanning headlines on a reader. The speaker was a woman named Clarissa

(Creative Minds also could treat their instructors as equals, on a first name basis), one of those who supervised the free project time.

“You’re still working on a media analysis?” prompted Clarissa.

“Yes.”

The RUNA’s flood of media had perhaps been the biggest bit of culture shock when Tessa had arrived from Panama. From an infrastructure point of view, there was simply no equivalent to the telecommunications, entertainment, and data that flooded the Gemman airwaves and were accessible to all citizens. It also tied together their daily activities. There was more to it than that, though. Exposing every aspect of life was completely unheard of where she’d come from, especially after having been raised in one of the more cloistered tiers of Panamanian society. Gemmans seemed to want to share every bit of their lives and opinions, as well as delve into those of celebrities and other public figures. At the same time, there was always a vibe to everything that made Tessa wonder just how free this flow of information was. Everything around her always seemed to hum with adoration and fealty for the RUNA and its way of life.

It was this fascination that had spurred her to examine the country’s preoccupation with itself and how the media defined its image. Tessa had chosen this for her project in social issues, and this wasn’t the first time Clarissa had been on her to find someone in that field to advise her.

“I know you glean a lot from your research with the stream.”

Clarissa’s voice was gentle. “But if you want to truly understand how what’s out there”—Clarissa pointed out the window—“ends up here”— she pointed at the screen—“then you need to talk to someone who plays a role in that.”

“Like who?”

Clarissa shrugged. “Any number of people. An editor. A reporter.

A director. We fully endorse and support real-world experience. You could shadow a mentor and learn firsthand how the process works.”

“Would anyone want me?” asked Tessa reluctantly.

Clarissa looked indignant. “My dear, we are the Institute for Creative Minds and Experiential Thinking. Some of the most important and influential people in this country send their children here. When we offer our students for internships and mentorships, people take notice.

The field experience office is downstairs. It’s mostly used by the tertiary students, but certainly exceptional secondaries like you can also receive placement. Why don’t you go, now that the day’s almost done? Start an application and see what happens.”

Tessa had no good reason to refuse and easily found the office. It was a tiny room adjacent to the much larger administrative office that governed most of the school’s day to day activities. When she arrived, she discovered a line of two others ahead of her. The young man in front of her was tall and lanky, with bright blond hair. When he glanced back at her, his fair skin and blue eyes confirmed him as a castal. That wasn’t surprising since castals—or patricians, as they liked to call themselves—were often among the RUNA’s elite, and this school certainly claimed many. A moment later, she realized with a start that she knew him. His double take told her he’d recognized her as well.

“Tessa?” he asked.

She groped for the name. “Darius. What are you doing here?”

She’d met Darius a few months ago, during a visit to the Nordic caste’s land grant. His family had played a surprising role in one of Justin’s investigations, and Darius had used Tessa’s connection to get help from Internal Security. Darius hadn’t threatened her or anything, but he’d certainly been forceful in soliciting her help, making the whole experience a bit overwhelming. His face brightened as he looked down at her.

“I go here,” he explained. “I transferred from the Nordic Tertiary Academy after . . .” A little of that enthusiasm dimmed. “. . . well, after things wrapped up in the spring. Dad hardly knows me these days, and everyone else is gone. It was time to move on.”

Tessa felt a pang of sympathy for this odd and often frenetic young man. He’d lost his mother and older brother to the actions of a demented cult, the aftermath of which had landed his father in a convalescent home. Darius had sought justice for them for a long time, and Tessa supposed that resolving something as big as that might very well spur the need for a fresh start.