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pet frog into. Then Tlaltecuhtli opened its vast mouth, revealing fangs the size of
buildings, and in the endless darkness of its maw there were red flutterings. Tlaltecuhtli
vomited forth a torrent of hummingbirds. A flock of them—no, a hover of them, a
charm of them, a troubling. The hummingbirds settled over the buildings like a ruby-red
mist of blood, and in the fluttering they transformed into men, warriors wearing bright
feathers and golden jewels, armed with swords. The warriors poured down into the
streets, on their way to harvest hearts for their gods.
“Her mouth opens on the Land of the Dead,” Marla whispered, and knew they were too
late, that they’d come back home, to the world of the third possibility. Mutex had
succeeded, and his monstrous god was risen. The world was lost. She’d be better off
throwing herself into the sea now, probably, because the alternative was to give up her
heart on an altar of Mutex’s devising, in the Palace of Fine Arts, perhaps, or on the steps
of City Hall, or atop Strawberry Hill. Whatever place he’d chosen for his temple. But
Marla wouldn’t throw herself into the sea. She’d fight, and gather the surviving
sorcerers, even if they were only apprentices and alley wizards and cantrippers, and
make them fight in unison, though that was easier to say than to do. It didn’t matter.
Mutex wouldn’t beat her. Not without suffering some himself in the process.
B was weeping.
Tlaltecuhtli turned its vast head, and looked upon them, and saw them, though they
were mere specks on a small island. The great monster of the Earth crouched low, and
then leapt, up and out toward them, and Marla looked into the sky, where doom was
falling toward them like a great green stone.
And then the world flickered, and the sky was only blue. She looked toward the city,
and there was no smoke, no monsters. B stood up, shakily, and Marla did as well.
“It…that wasn’t home,” he said.
“No,” Marla said. “I guess it wasn’t. But it’s what could happen. If we don’t move fast
enough. If we fail.”
“Do you think this is it?” B said. “Are we back?”
“It looks like the world we left,” she said. “Let’s try to find a ferry.”
There were tourists on the island, and a boat preparing to leave. Marla and B slipped
into the back of the ferry, and sat huddled together. It wasn’t as cold here as it had been
in the glacial other world, but a San Francisco morning on the bay in January was still
far from balmy. They were both miserable, cold, hungry, and shaken from their
experience. They didn’t speak on the trip back across the bay. When they arrived at the
pier, Marla actually asked B to get a cab. They rode to the hotel, and Marla’s hunger
fought for space with her worry. They went into the hotel restaurant, where brunch was
being served, and gorged themselves. When they were done eating, they took the
elevator upstairs.
Rondeau wasn’t in the room. There was no note.
“Maybe he went out for breakfast,” B said doubtfully.