FORTY-SIX

SARA FELL BACK and toppled to the stone floor. Her eyes stared in horror at the knife in Weston’s hand. Then she realized she was leaning back on her hands. Her freed hands. He’d cut her bonds. Weston sheathed the knife on his belt and drew the pistol hanging on the other side. He pointed the weapon at Sara and waved it up and down.

“Go ahead. Stand,” he said, “and feast your eyes on the wonders of Mount Meru.”

Sensing Weston had no intention of killing her, she stood and did as he asked. The truth was, since her first glimpse of the otherworldly spectacle, she wanted nothing more than a chance to drink it all in. As she turned and faced perhaps the oldest and most magnificent wonder of the world, she nearly fell to her knees. The sight was dizzying—more overwhelming than staring into the Grand Canyon. Not only because of its beauty and size, but also because she stood on a precipice several hundred feet above the site.

A city, more beautiful than any she’d seen constructed by modern man, stretched out before her. It was clearly ancient in its arrangement, with smaller dwellings encircling the perimeter and more ominous structures growing in size toward the city’s core. With each rise in structure size, a wall separated one part of the city from the next in true old-world galleried fashion. That the city had been founded on a hill beneath a mountain added to the upward rise of each gallery. The architecture had an Asian feel, but it was clearly the inspiration for the first Asian builders, who must have seen this city with their own eyes before setting to work. Everything was constructed from stone. Some structures appeared to have been seamlessly carved out of the very mountain itself. Others were built from large stone blocks, fit snugly together. The only sign of degradation was that several of the structures’ roofs had rotted and caved in. But just as many appeared to have fresh roofs with newly hewn planks that glowed brightly in the aqua light.

And the light itself was perhaps the most exquisite attribute of the place. It glowed, as though conjured through some arcane magic, from massive crystals descending from the roof, three hundred feet high. Bundles of crystals clung to the ceiling, but a few, the largest of the bunch, stretched from ceiling to floor, putting the giant crystals discovered in Chihuahua Mexico’s Naica Mine to shame. But the light did not generate from the crystals, it was merely amplified and cast out by them. The light source beaming itself onto the crystals was the same here as it was everywhere else in the world. Hundreds of small holes had been carved into the mountain above the tree line. Sun streaked through the holes, struck the crystals, and refracted throughout the chambers. A passing cloud caused the light to flicker. The most beautiful light display filled the chamber as the moving light split into colorful rainbows that danced across every surface.

Following one of the rainbow shards of light to the city below, Sara noticed several patches of green. Trees grew. Flower beds, too. All were manicured and stunning. But the city was not inhabited. It was a living ghost city.

And the city truly felt dead, despite the obvious new growth. At first Sara thought the otherworldly feel of the place was influencing her sense of undead dread. The growing feeling of unease peaked. Something inside her mind, like an elastic suddenly springing free from a snag, snapped back into place. She staggered, trying to make sense of the change.

Weston saw her stumble and took hold of her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Sara held her hand up, but could not yet speak. She focused on standing. Then when she felt sure she wouldn’t tumble over the edge, she tried to get a handle on her senses.

She breathed. She listened. She felt . . . less.

Sara’s eyes went wide.

Smell was smell and sound was sound. She could feel nothing but the hand on her shoulder and ground beneath her feet. She sensed the world in five separate categories now, not a continuous mash-up.

“What is it?” Weston asked, sounding more interested than concerned.

“I have a neurological disorder. I feel and see sounds, sometimes smells.”

“And now?”

“Gone.”

Weston chuckled. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

Sara’s eyes widened as she surveyed the ancient natural structures. “It’s the crystals.”

“Indeed.” Weston straightened his stance, proud like a child showing a new bike to friends. “Before I came to the Annamites, I was something of a postmodern hippie. I wore these crystals. Quartz. I’m not sure if I ever truly believed the crystals did what they were supposed to. I just thought they were pretty.”

He took a deep breath, holding the air in his lungs, and then let it free with a smile. “Buddhism assigned quartz as one of their seven precious substances. Native Americans called them ‘the brain cells of Grandmother Earth.’ Ancient Indian Sanskrit reveres them as ‘the gem that removes fear.’ Throughout history, mankind has been—incorrectly—attributing power to regular quartz crystals. I believe the crystals of Mount Meru were the inspiration for the belief of crystal healing throughout human history. The difference is that these really work.”

Sara’s mind couldn’t help but hypothesize. “Maybe it’s the vibrations . . .”

“What was that?”

Sara’s answer was more thinking aloud than an actual response. “All matter exists in three states. Gas, liquid, and solid. The atoms in a gas are loose. Free to shift and move about. In a liquid the atoms are condensed—squeezed together—but are still able to move about. But with solids the atoms are compressed—squeezed against each other and unable to move. In most structures, like stone, the collection of atoms is random. But with crystals, like quartz, the atoms are . . . organized. Motifs and lattices. It’s like the atoms are trapped inside tiny boxes, bouncing off tightly enclosed walls. With trillions of atoms all following this same microscopic, unified pattern, they give off an imperceptible but powerful vibration.

“I doubt they’re capable of healing disease or injuries, but the human mind is a network of neurons. Electrical impulses moving along paths crisscross the mind. But it’s not orderly. People stutter. They forget. The mind can think, but it can’t organize itself. Neurons collide. Get lost. Pathways break. How the mind really works is still a mystery. But we do know the mind can be a chaotic place. Perhaps these crystals align the neural pathways?”

“Like redesigning Boston in a grid.”

“Exactly.” Sara looked at Weston and immediately felt a surge of guilt. This man was her captor and threatened their mission. She glanced at her outbreak meter. Still orange. Despite her growing self-loathing, she had one more question. “Are they quartz?”

“They’re part quartz, of that I’m sure,” Weston said, “but they taste of salt if you lick them.”

“That’s why the air is so fresh. They’re ionizing it.”

Weston nodded and took another deep breath. “Invigorating.”

Sara didn’t think so. It was as though the crystals in the cave, having realigned her neural pathways, had corrected the way she sensed the world, making her whole and healthy. As the detachment from the sensory input she’d been born with grew more profound, nausea twisted in her gut. She had never experienced the world through normal senses. People suffering from a blocked ear often found themselves disoriented and dizzy. Sometimes sick. Sara thought this was far worse. And for the first time in her life she realized that having the mixed-up senses that caused her to lose sleep, appear spacey, and get annoyed at small things other people failed to notice, wasn’t a curse. It was who she was.

How she’d been made.

And like a person switching abruptly from espresso to decaf, she didn’t handle the transition with grace. The room swirled before her eyes, moving back and forth like the carriage of a typewriter in the hands of a frantic author. She fought the urge to fall to her knees. To puke. She couldn’t show Weston her weakness.

She took a deep breath. The air, at least, was cool, clean, and well oxygenated. With each breath she felt her emotions level out. As her mind cleared, she realized that distraction had been her key to ignoring the world through her previously cross-wired senses. She would make it her key to ignoring a world experienced through normal senses, too.

She opened her eyes and looked down over the edge. A river flowed around the outskirts of the city. It entered through the far wall, flowing from a tunnel that had been arched with large stones fit perfectly together. The flow wrapped around the city, nearly all the way around, before exiting through a second tunnel, identical to the first. It was a moat, a fast-moving wall of water. It seemed more like a fortress than a city, and for a moment she wondered how the Neanderthal civilization had been wiped out.

Competition, she thought. They had been starved to death as humanity moved into the surrounding area, using up resources. Afraid of annihilation, the Neanderthals must have hunkered down while their population dwindled until just a few were left. And then . . . either a hyperevolution or genetic assimilation over a few short generations led to something different. Something capable of wiping out entire villages.

A superpredator.

But when Weston entered the picture, when he brought his human genetics and skills to the superpredator table, the small group of superpredators had entered a season of plasticity. The population boomed. And would continue to grow until conflict with the outside world, with humanity, brought the Neanderthal to the brink of extinction once again. Of course, they’ll have the run of the planet soon enough, she thought.

Another flicker of rainbow light caught her attention and brought her eyes to the city’s center where atop the peak of the hill, a tall temple stood. Five towers rose from the temple, each looking like a serrated stone spear tip. The design seemed familiar to Sara. She’d seen it before. On a postcard from a college roommate who’d traveled . . . where? Then it came to her. “Angkor Wat.”

“Very good,” Weston said.

She glanced at him and realized she might be able to heave him over the edge. Then she saw the gun in his crossed arms, still trained on her. He’d thought the same thing.

“Have you heard,” Weston said, “that Angkor Wat was built to symbolically represent Mount Meru, home of the Hindu gods? That’s actually incorrect. Most people think the spires represent mountains, but what they don’t know is that Angkor Wat is a crude facsimile of the original temple constructed here. The first humans to reach this far into Asia were enslaved. Escapees spread the story of this place to humanity and a religion was born, or at least added to. This is the legendary Mount Meru. Revered by Hindu and Buddhist alike. The axis of all real and mythological universes. Surya the sun god is said to circumambulate Mount Meru daily.

“As you can see . . .” Weston motioned his arms at the array of circular holes cut into the mountain through which the sun spilled. “The sun does indeed walk around the mountain each and every day. This is the home of gods long forgotten, watered down, and driven nearly to extinction.”

“Gods can be driven to extinction?” Sara said, surprised by the sarcasm in her voice. The last thing she wanted to do was antagonize Weston.

But he seemed unfazed. He merely grinned. Perhaps being separated from humanity for so long made him forget what certain tones of voice meant.

“All gods have low points,” Weston said. “The Titans were defeated by Zeus. Set trapped Osiris in a coffin and sent him adrift in the sea. Jesus found himself nailed to a cross. There is, of course, one staggering difference between them and the gods residing here.” He looked at Sara with excited eyes. “These are real. And I am their father.”

“But no one lives here,” Sara said, ignoring a fresh wave of nausea.

“Soon enough,” Weston said. “I have forbidden the children to live here until the city is fully restored. With only a few remaining roofs to be replaced, it will not be long before this chamber echoes with the sounds of Nguoi Rung song again.”

Sara pictured Lucy singing opera and nearly laughed. It was an absurd image. Even with her half-human parentage she seemed so brutal and savage that Sara doubted any of them could carry a tune. But they wouldn’t be singing operas, they’d be cheering their new-found dominance over the planet. “How can you believe Neanderthals have more right to exist on Earth? You’re human, too.”

Weston grew angry. “Neanderthals and humans have equal rights to live. By setting you free I might save the human race, but I would damn theirs!”

“By choosing not to let us leave you might be damning the human race. More than six billion people.” Sara sighed. She could see that Weston would never trust her to leave with the cure. The man was a stubborn fool too in love with his bastard children to care about anyone else. “You’ll never be one of them.”

Weston calmed, and for a moment, looked sad. “True. I have become as close as I can to being one of them. I have embraced their ways. I have learned to read and write their language. I have unlocked their buried history and mapped their world. In a way, I am more like the Neanderthals who built this place than the mothers of my children. What’s important is that my children accept me . . . just as they will come to accept you.” He motioned with the gun to the side of the cliff. “Move.”

Sara nervously approached the edge. His last statement implied that he planned on keeping her alive and captive indefinitely, yet Weston’s sanity had left him long ago, and he now had her walking toward a several-hundred-foot drop. Sara let out a small sigh of relief as she neared the edge. Descending along the wall of the massive cavern was a stone staircase cut into the interior mountain wall. All but invisible from the side, it came clearly into view from above. But if he wasn’t going to kill her, what did he intend?

“What do you want with me?” she asked, starting down the staircase.

“I want to restore the Neanderthals to their former glory. They were an amazing people. A civilized people, far beyond the warring Homo sapiens of their time. But to do that, they need to learn.”

Sara paused and looked back. “You want me to teach them?”

“Who better?”

“Umm, anyone.”

“There is no one else here.”

“King is—”

“—a killer,” Weston said. “And I fear he will not give up the fight until he is killed.”

Sara continued down the staircase without another word. Weston was right. She could do little to fight Weston, let alone his super-strong and superfast children. Escape, for her, was impossible.

Or was it? She hadn’t seen any Nguoi Rung since being led into the cave system. And the city was abandoned. Alone with Weston, this might be her only real chance of escape.

But she needed to find out what his cure for Brugada was. She wouldn’t leave without it.

She glanced back at Weston.

Given his size, strength, and no doubt, ferocity, coupled with the fact that he carried a knife and a gun, Sara’s life was in Weston’s hands, for now. She wondered if she’d see the outside world again. She longed for it now. She wanted her screwed-up senses back. She wanted to return to the noise and chaos of the city. And she wanted to see King again. Her thoughts lingered on King. Not on his body. Not on their mission. Not on his voice or his eyes or any of the other things women might think of when they thought about men. She focused on his uncanny ability to stay alive in the worst of situations, hoping to channel some of that confidence and cunning into herself.

If she didn’t . . . she’d be a slave for the rest of her life.

Or dead within the hour.