“I’m fine here,” Victoire huffs. “A friend of ours is coming over to stay with us while Mom and Dad are off on their weird adventures in other dimensions, though Romy will never believe this—”

Once again I feel a sensation wash over me, but this time it isn’t heat. It’s pure cold. “What name did you just say?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear her,” says Romola, who must’ve been able to walk right through the front door while the rest of us were so completely distracted. “You should know me by now.”

Maybe I should be unnerved by the Firebird around Romola’s neck—proof that she’s from the Home Office.

But I’m a whole lot more freaked out by her gun.

 

 

22

ROMOLA. AGAIN.

Worst is seeing the awful betrayal on Victoire’s face, and her sisters’ faces. They look so wounded. Even shattered. Did I look like this when I thought Paul had hurt my father?

Victoire rises to her feet, wobbly and uncertain. “Romy—what are you—”

“You can explain all this to your version of me later,” Romola snaps. “But I think you know who I’ve come for.”

She’s here to set Wicked free.

Paul, Theo, and I all exchange glances. Between the three of us and the seven other clones in this room, we could take Romola out easily—if it weren’t for the black pistol she holds. As it is, any attempt to disarm her could be deadly, and if one of the bullets hit a clone, Romola might kill two Marguerites with a single pull of the trigger. Theo’s shoulders sag in defeat. But Paul—

Paul’s eyes blaze with that cold fire I’ve found so menacing in the past. Is this the same anger he would have felt anyway, or proof of his splintering? The potential for violence deep within him has been re-armed, and it could explode at any moment.

At the moment, though, I’m nearly as angry as he is, no splintering required. It’s galling to have to point to Victoire and say, “Your Marguerite is . . . with her. Asleep, but safe and sound.”

“Very well.” Romola motions to the chair Victoire was sitting in only a few moments before. “Go on. Take your seat. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Is this about the phantom?” Victoire asks. I nod. She turns to Romola then, still bewildered and hurt. “Romy, why are you doing this?”

“I’m not your ‘Romy.’ I’m from a dimension with higher technology and more realistic priorities.”

“You’re destroying billions of lives to save one,” Paul says. Though he keeps his voice low, his anger simmers just below the surface. “Those priorities are twisted. Corrupt. But hardly realistic.”

Romy shrugs. “In all honesty, I see your point. But gaining supremacy over all the other worlds in the multiverse? That makes more sense.” Her eyes are cold as she glances at Victoire. “When is that one going to sit down?”

“Do it,” I say to Victoire, this other me who’s wearing the scratches and bruises I gave her earlier tonight. “There’s no other way.”

Trembling, Victoire takes her seat. The other two clones lean forward, as if they’ll rush Romola the moment Victoire shows any pain, gun or no gun. Unfortunately recklessness seems to be a characteristic too many of us share.

Don’t go after her, I think as I try to catch the others’ eyes. If only clones could be telepathic with each other, so I could make it clear just how dangerous this is. Then they wouldn’t do anything stupid—

—but they don’t even get the chance, because Paul rushes Romola first.

As he smashes into her, sending them both stumbling into the wall, we all scream. He’s such a huge man that the tackle would seem brutal if Romola weren’t wielding a gun. But even her tumble down to the ground doesn’t make her drop her weapon. Romola kicks away from him, skidding across the floor, and has the presence of mind to aim not at Paul but at me. “I’ll do it,” she says rapidly, not even glancing at Paul a couple of paces behind her. Her eyes remain focused on her target, which appears to be the dead center of my chest. “Don’t try me. I will kill her.”

Paul says nothing. Instead he grabs a meat cleaver from the knife block. Its blade glints in the light. The others in the room gasp, but Romola still doesn’t look up. And Paul’s standing close enough, at the perfect angle, to swing it down and split her head wide open.

Don’t. Terror rushes through me. Not for myself, despite Romola’s unwavering aim. She doesn’t realize what Paul could do. She wouldn’t even have time to know Paul was taking action before he’d stunned or killed her.

But if Paul kills Romola like this, in cold blood, he will have surrendered to that darkness within him. The damage from his shattering will be complete, if only because he’ll never again believe that he could be anything but a murderer.

I can say nothing. Do nothing. This battle is Paul’s to fight.

He stares down at her, hatred warping his expression into something I can hardly recognize. His hand tightens around the cleaver’s handle as his knuckles turn white. Within him I see all the menace I remember from the son of a Russian mafia leader. All the recklessness of the Cambridgeverse Paul, who let a moment’s temper and inattention mangle my arm forever. And I see a hard, bitter edge that belongs to my Paul alone.

Oh, God, he’s going to do it. He’s going to kill her.

At that moment Romola glances upward and sees what he’s doing. She doesn’t even flinch. “Your Marguerite is in my sights.” Her arm hasn’t wavered one millimeter. “The second I see you start for me, I fire. She’ll be dead before I will.”

Anger ripples over Paul’s face, an ugly grimace that makes me wonder if he’ll strike Romola down anyway. Instead he steps back and sets the cleaver down again.

Would he have murdered her? We can never know.

Now that Paul is no longer an immediate threat, Romola sits up and goes back into action. With her free hand, Romola fishes a second Firebird from around her neck. She prepared herself for anything, then. As she lifts the heavy chain over her head, Theo says, “Where did you get a gun in Singapore?”

“Policemen carry them,” Romola explains as she tosses the Firebird to Victoire, who puts it on with shaking hands. The other Marguerites have clustered in a corner, silent and pale, knowing they can’t help. Only watch. “Odd, given that the officer in question obviously had no expectation of being attacked.”