“Van Gogh,” Patrick uttered. “There’s a Degas. And a Picasso. Those two are by Cezanne. Dali, Matisse, Lautrec, and Jackson Pollock. My god, Pendragon, these are some of the greatest paintings of all time.”
I guess Patrick knew art, too. Heck, he was a teacher.
“I know that one,” I said. “Mono. Lisa, right?”
Patrick nodded, dumbfounded. “They can’t all be replicas. They’re too… too… good.”
“So maybe that big statue we saw outside really was the original David. And those soldiers really were pulled out of a tomb in China.”
“And maybe these buildings aren’t replicas, either.”
The idea was staggering. Did the Ravinians steal great artworks from around the world for their own personal collection?
“There is something odd, though,” Patrick commented, frowning.
“Gee, you think?”
“All the artwork we’ve seen dates from the early twenty-first century and before. I haven’t seen a single piece of notable art that was made in the three thousand years since then.”
“And you’d know it if you saw it?” I asked. He gave me an impatient look. Of course he would. I shrugged. “Okay, genius, what do you think that means?”
“It could mean that from the time the Ravinians took power on Second Earth, no notable art was created.” “That’s kind of, I don’t know, scary,” I said.
Patrick nodded. It was a sobering thought.
We heard the sound of a heavy door being thrown open, followed by the scuffling of feet. The sounds were coming from deeper in the building. There was a small forest of tall pillars ahead of us. Patrick and I used them to hide behind as we made our way toward the sounds. We only had to move a few yards before we came upon the dead center of the Taj Mahal, directly under the massive dome. The central area was open, with ornate mosaic tile work on the floor. The whole area was ringed by marble columns. I nudged Patrick and pointed to the floor inside the ring. He looked, and winced. The tile pattern formed a giant, red Ravinian star. To our left was a wide set of stairs covered with rich red carpet. On top of these stairs was a platform, upon which was a heavy golden throne. The detail on it was incredible. There were intertwining vines and flowers that looked to have been molded from solid gold. On the seat and the back were rich red cushions.
“So who’s the king?” Patrick asked.
I didn’t know. But I had a pretty good idea.
Opposite the throne, across the center area, light blazed in from the doors that had been thrown open. A group of people hurried in-the Ravinian guards with their prisoners from the helicopters. The poor guys weren’t putting up a fight. They looked too beat up for that. The guards dragged them inside the ring of marble columns, but stopped before entering the circle that contained the Ravinian star.
I heard a woman’s voice call to them. “Stop there!”
It made the hair go up on the back of my neck. I knew that voice. My first reaction was to scream. I didn’t, because it was also good news. Sort of. It meant that we were in the right place.
“Bring their leader forward,” the woman commanded.
Patrick and I carefully maneuvered around the pillar where we were hiding to see her. She stood next to the throne on top of the platform, looking down on the guards and their victims. She wore a long, deep red robe with golden trim. Her dark brown hair was piled up on top of her head like some kind of fashion model, as opposed to the way she normally wore it, which was straight down. Under other circumstances, I’d say she was beautiful. These weren’t other circumstances.
I wanted to leap onto that platform and strangle Nevva Winter.
Two Ravinian guards stepped forward, holding one of the victims. It was an older guy with shaggy gray hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. His face looked swollen. A trickle of blood oozed from the side of his mouth. He’d been beaten. The red-shirt guards dragged him to the center of the Ravinian star and pushed him down onto his knees. He didn’t resist. Of the four prisoners he looked to be the weakest. The other three each had two guards holding them. One of them was the powerful-looking hero guy with long black hair. His head was down, his chin against his chest. He may have been beaten up, but he was alert. I saw him stealing quick glances, sizing up the situation. I guess he didn’t want the Ravinians to know that he wasn’t done yet. It made me like this guy even more.
Nevva drifted down the stairs and approached the man on his knees. Her eyes were locked on him. He didn’t lift his own eyes to meet her gaze. When Nevva spoke, she actually sounded as if she had sympathy for the guy. I knew better. Nevva was heartless.
“It would be better for all of you if you told us what you know,” she said softly, as if trying to put him at ease.
The guy took a deep, pained breath and twisted his head to look up at her.
“Better?” he rasped. “Are you saying that Ravinia will show compassion?”
“I’m saying that if you refuse to speak, things will go badly for you. For you all.”
The guy chuckled. It made him cough. It was a sickening, gurgling hack. There was blood down there. I could feel his body tense in pain. I thought back to the guy at the zoo that the Ravinian guards were kicking. These guys must have gotten the same treatment.
“I don’t see how things could get much worse than they already are,” he wheezed.
A voice boomed from on top of the platform. “Believe me, things can always be worse.”
I felt Patrick tense up. I must have done the same. That voice always had that kind of effect. My instincts were right. We were definitely in the right place. We both looked up to the platform to see the proof.
Saint Dane stepped in front of the throne.
It was definitely the demon, but I had to do a double take. He didn’t look the same. He was still thin and stood very tall. He still had those cold blue-white eyes. His voice was the same. But the guy standing there looked more like Saint Dane’s younger brother than Saint Dane.
His hair was back. It was as long as I remembered from when I first met him, before it burned off, leaving a bald, scarred dome. It was parted in the middle and fell straight past his shoulders. But it wasn’t gray. It was black. Jet-black. He wasn’t wearing that familiar black suit, either. The cut of the suit he now wore was the same as the old one. It still buttoned tight under his chin, but it was deep red with golden braids around the cuffs and collar. The strangest thing of all was that he looked younger than I remembered. If I were to guess, I would have said that Saint Dane always looked like he was in his fifties. He now looked to be in his thirties. He didn’t seem to be playing a role, either. It was definitely Saint Dane as himself. But it wasn’t. I hate to write this, but I have to be true to what I saw. This new and improved Saint Dane actually looked… yikes… handsome.
Patrick was every bit as stunned as I was. He looked at me as if to ask, “Is that really him?”
I nodded. It didn’t matter what color his hair was or what kind of silly suit he wore; it was him.
The demon walked casually down the stairs, headed for the kneeling man.
“You are quite brave,” Saint Dane said to the man. It was a compliment, but it was cold. “You are all brave. I commend you. However, you must know that your cause is lost. How many of your rebel band are left? A few dozen? How many have you seen die? Too many. Such a waste. Don’t you want that to end?”
The guy on his knees was breathing heavily. He kept his eyes on the ground.
“Look at me,” Saint Dane said softly. The guy didn’t.
“I said look at me!” he bellowed while grabbing the guy’s chin and forcing his head up.
Nevva took a step back. I wasn’t sure if she was bothered by this or she didn’t want to get in the way if Saint Dane started swinging.
“You have a choice,” Saint Dane said, once again calm.
“You always have a choice. You can tell us what you know. A simple answer. One word. That’s all I need, and your suffering will end.”