Eighty-four “clients” before him. People who had been in the best of health until the Happy Campers broke them, so that the Shards would have people to heal. Here was the reason why nothing they did made a difference! And what was even worse than the ruined people spread out before him, were the hundreds of followers who saw nothing wrong with it.
Dillon could imagine them stealing away in the night, selecting their victims, and brutalizing them in his name: breaking bones, tearing limbs, even killing them—for to the followers of the Shards, pain and death meant nothing anymore. To them, pain was a rite of passage, and death was merely a prelude to a miracle. How could he, of all people, not have seen this coming? That the consequences of healing was to create a bloody cult of sacrifice and resurrection. A surge was building in him now, rising like bile in his throat.
“Well, look at that!” said Nurse Hatchet, grinning at the fountain as if it were a well-trimmed Christmas tree. Dillon’s hand had inadvertently touched the water, undoing its random, chaotic spray. Reversing its entropy. Now the fountain flowed backward.
The woman showed her dimples, “My, you’re just one big barrel of miracles, aren’t you!”
The doors of the castle swung open and the other Shards stepped out, with Okoya close behind.
“Crowded today,” said Okoya, as he looked out over the dead and dying.
“Not a problem,” said Michael, “I’m ready to rock- and-roll.”
Dillon pulled himself together, knowing that he had no choice but to restore the hoards that had been battered for their benefit.
And he told the others nothing, for fear that they wouldn’t care.
Okoya found Dillon to be a maddeningly hard egg to crack—and was already considering all the ways he might destroy this willful, uncompromising star-shard should it become necessary. It would not be hard to turn the other four against Dillon now, for they had chosen their paths. They were already set against one another, and were growing enamored of their new lifestyles, feeding off their exalted positions, and off their followers. If they perceived Dillon as a threat to that, they could, and would, destroy him. Or perhaps Dillon could be killed by his own followers. Okoya could find a way to reshape the situation, spinning the hoards of followers into a web that would ensnare Dillon, and tear him limb from limb.
But these were only last resorts. He would only need to be destroyed if he turned on Okoya and tried to unite the others against him. Dillon was a most powerful tool, and could be used in a great many inventive ways. With Dillon beneath his thumb, this well-fattened world could easily pass into Okoya’s hands, for him to dine on, or do with as he pleased.
And so Okoya waited, keeping his eye open for opportunities . . . until the day the fountain flowed backward, and Dillon discovered the deeds of his own minions.
Later that day, while the other four Shards lounged around the castle, occupied with their own concerns, Okoya climbed the steps to Dillon’s chambers, and talked the guard into letting him in, which was fairly easy, as the guard had no soul. Okoya held in his hand a small statuette of a robed figure, carved in pink onyx. Conveniently sized at eight inches, and warm to the touch, the figurine was a perfect gift for the Shard who had everything.
Okoya found Dillon in the bathroom—the shower to be exact—sitting fully clothed beneath the running water, like a drunk trying to shock himself sober.
Okoya turned off the stream of water that sprayed into Dillon’s face. “If you’re trying to drown yourself, you should try one of the pools. They’re deeper.”
Dillon didn’t move an inch from the corner of the black marble shower. “Thanks for the advice. You can go now.”
“I’m impressed by your melodrama,” Okoya said, “but I have something here that might cheer you up.” Okoya placed the figurine on the narrow edge of the tub, right in front of Dillon. “I found it deep in the basement,” Okoya lied. “Look at the craftsmanship! It might be thousands of years old, and its edges are still smooth.”
Dillon eyed it, studied it, but this statue wasn’t meant for his eyes.
“What an incredible story this piece must have to tell,” Okoya teased. “What delicious patterns of history you’ll be able to uncover just by touching it.” Okoya sat on the edge of the tub, sliding closer.
“Touch it, Dillon,” he intoned. “Feel every pattern, every texture in your fingertips. Your hands have given so much to others. . . . Now it’s time to take something back . . .”
Okoya could tell Dillon was drawn to it, and for a moment thought he might seize it and lose himself in sensory overload, savoring the banquet of texture and pattern Okoya had so carefully layered into the figurine’s design.
“Take something for yourself, Dillon. You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”
But instead, Dillon stood, never touching the statue.
“If I need to get off,” he said, “I don’t need that thing to do it.”
Then he grabbed a towel and left the bathroom.
Even in his frustration, Okoya had to smile. No, Dillon would not be snared by an object of desire—he was far too clever for that. Dillon’s ability to size up and sidestep a situation made him dangerously elusive, and all the more desirable a trophy. Okoya took the statuette and it disappeared into his pocket.
In the bedroom, Dillon peeled off his sopping clothes, then dressed himself, keeping his back to Okoya. It was more a gesture of disdain than modesty. That’s all right, thought Okoya. This can he done without friendship. It will just take a bit more effort.
“Do you know what our Happy Campers are doing?” Dillon asked. “Do you know what they’ve done?”
“I think your followers have been doing you a great service. They’re doing everything necessary to make sure the ones you heal will have the greatest possible impact on the world.” Okoya positioned himself between Dillon and the door. “Didn’t someone once say, ‘The end justifies the means’?”
“No, it doesn’t.” Dillon towel-dried his hair, and stood at the vanity mirror, looking at himself. Looking through himself.
“You have a strange way of thinking, Dillon,” said Okoya. “You say you want to repair a shattering world, but you’re not willing to take hard action. You might as well be treading water.”
Dillon’s eyes suddenly locked on Okoya’s, and Okoya suppressed a smile, realizing he had finally pressed a button.
“What would you do if you were me?” asked Dillon.
Okoya paused for a moment, and took a step closer. “If I were you, I’d stop feeling sorry for myself . . . and I would take control.”
“Control of what?” snapped Dillon.
“Of everything. Control is what you want, isn’t it? Control is what you need. Because the only way you’ll ever be able to protect the world is if it’s entirely under your personal control.”
Dillon sat down, no longer angry, but scared. “That’s crazy,” Dillon said. “I can’t do that.”
“Oh really?” Okoya began to raise his voice ever so slightly. “How many people were following you three weeks ago? None! But now that it’s started, it’s moving faster than you can imagine. There’re more than five hundred of them now—and every one of them is waiting for you to use them, but all you do is brush them off.”
“I won’t use people.”
“It’s about time you started.”
Okoya had Dillon’s attention now, for the first time since they had arrived at the castle . . . but Dillon’s eyes had settled on something in the corner.