OFFICER S: Also known as the preliminary identification criteria, or PIC.
OFFICER K: Correct. I would characterize her reaction to that as “incredulous.” She asked who’d made the prophecy and why the government would pay attention to, I quote, “some crazy person spewing poetry.”
I had been given clearance to disclose details about the clairvoyant. I said that her name was [redacted], and this individual had repeatedly demonstrated a talent for knowledge beyond our ability to comprehend. That she had made 746 predictions that had come to pass in our observation.
OFFICER S: The subject’s reaction to this?
OFFICER K: It’s strange—the other subjects had demonstrated disbelief or fear or even, in the case of Subject 1, steely determination. But Subject 2 was the first one to ask what would happen if she said no.
OFFICER S: No?
OFFICER K: Yes—no. No to fighting the Dark One.
OFFICER S: [Laughing] Did you tell her she didn’t have much of a choice?
OFFICER K: I believe that would have been unwise. She reminded me a little of a stray dog—if you try to grab it, it might bite you. But if you are careful, you might be able to persuade it to come to you.
OFFICER S: If you know what it eats.
OFFICER K: Correct. And I think in this case, respect was the right bait, so to speak. So I said, “I think that if you said no, you would dramatically increase the chances of the world ending.” Citing repercussions rather than restrictions—a choice without an acceptable outcome.
OFFICER S: It did the trick?
OFFICER K: It did. She was very still for a while. I had rarely encountered a person of her age who could be that still. But she simply said, “This sucks,” and started discussing the logistics with me.
OFFICER S: Profound.
OFFICER K: Contrary to what you may have seen in movies, our Chosen Ones rarely make poetic declarations. In this case, I believe she was the only subject who truly grasped what was ahead of her.
OFFICER S: What logistics did you go over?
OFFICER K: The training that awaited her at [redacted] in [redacted], the preparations she would need to make before she left, and when I would return to pick her up for the move. I asked her how long she would need to prepare, and she told me a day. When I asked if she would prefer to take more time to bid farewell to family and friends and explain the situation to her mother, she said it wouldn’t take that much time. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m alone here,” I believe she said.
OFFICER S: She didn’t think her mother would object to her child being taken away by a government agency she’d never heard of to fight the Dark One?
OFFICER K: No, she didn’t. And by all accounts, she was right. When I came back a day later, she was sitting in the same spot with a backpack and an old banker box.
OFFICER S: I gotta be honest with you, she’s not the Chosen One I’m betting on. My money’s on Subject 4.
OFFICER K: Let’s just hope we got at least one of them right.
TOP SECRET
5
SLOANE STUFFED another bite of spanakopita in her mouth. She stood with Esther at one of the high tables near the buffet in the ballroom where the Ten Years Peace gala was taking place. They had their heads bent toward each other as if they were having a serious conversation. It was the only way anyone would leave them alone long enough for them to get some food in their mouths. Being one of the Chosen Ones at the Peace gala was like being the bride at a wedding.
They were in the grand ballroom at the Drake Hotel. The room was white and gold—a white marble floor lined with pillars decorated in gold filigree with chandeliers casting white-gold light over the space. Along one wall, floor-to-ceiling windows showed the bend of Lake Shore Drive and the lights of the buildings along it and the stretch of dark that was Lake Michigan at night.
All around them were men in tuxedos and women in gowns, forming little clusters, clutching glasses of champagne by their stems. Sloane made eye contact with one of the guests and immediately turned away, not wanting to provoke conversation.
“You keep wincing,” Esther said to her.
“I gave myself armpit razor burn this morning, and sweating is like literally rubbing salt in a wound,” Sloane replied. A bead of sweat had just rolled across the raw part of her armpit, and she did not appreciate it.
Esther grimaced. “The worst.”
Esther was wearing something only she could have pulled off, a drapey, elaborately pleated gown in a muted mint color. Her hair was tied back in a simple knot. She wore a thick layer of makeup, as usual, but tonight it suited the occasion, her eyes framed in gray eye shadow, like a puff of smoke had settled on each lid.
“I miss it here,” Esther said. She was poking olives from a pasta salad with her fork, trying to get them all on one tine. Her hyperfocus on her plate was part of what made their disguise complete; when you were looking down, people thought you might be crying, and they avoided you. That combined with Sloane’s effortless death glare would keep them safe for at least a few minutes.
“How’s your mom doing?” Sloane said.
“Not great.” Esther shrugged. “Her oncologist says there’s not much we can do at this point except . . . delay things.”
“I’m so sorry, Essy,” Sloane said. “I wish I had something more profound to say, but it just . . . sucks.”
It didn’t seem right, really, that they could save the world by taking down an entity of supreme evil using magic, but they still couldn’t keep their families safe from mundane dangers. To humanity, they were Chosen Ones, saviors, heroes—but cancer made everyone equal.
“Better to be honest than profound,” Esther said distantly.
Over Esther’s shoulder, Sloane spotted a trim young man in a tuxedo with a blue bow tie who was watching Esther with interest. Sloane narrowed her eyes at him and shook her head when he glanced at her. He moved away.
“We miss you, though,” Sloane said. “Grumpy as we might seem.”
“Oh, do we seem grumpy?” Esther raised an eyebrow. “Slo, I can see all the way from California that you’re losing your shit. What’s going on with you lately?”
Sloane gave her a sideways look. She thought about calling the man with the blue bow tie back over so he could distract Esther from this conversation.
“Don’t think you can glare me into submission,” Esther said. “I asked you a question.”
She and Esther always had conversations like this. They both communicated like battering rams, for better or worse, which meant they frequently collided with each other, to catastrophic effect. But they also didn’t waste each other’s time. If Esther was thinking something, she would say it, and there was no guesswork involved.
“I requested some documents from the government,” Sloane said. “Reading them has been . . . eye-opening.”
“You know,” Esther said, “sometimes it’s better to keep your eyes shut.” She sipped her champagne. “Okay, get that chunk of spinach out of your teeth, because I’m pretty sure Matt’s about to call attention to you.”
Sure enough, the musicians in the corner had stopped playing their cellos and violins and . . . was that a standup bass? They were all looking across the room to where Matt stood in his immaculate tuxedo with the gold bow tie, his smile wide. He tapped a champagne flute with a butter knife, trying to get everyone to quiet down.