The War for the Waking World by Wayne Thomas Batson

destruction by mere inches? It is a long story, but remember, when I ’ad the Shadow Key, my goal was to set you free. It’s still my goal, but now that Kara ’as the key, I can’t ’elp you. And if I’m stuck ’ere, I can’t do anything for you. Do you see?”
    â€œWe sees. We sees.”
    â€œSo we need to ’elp each other,” Rigby said.
    â€œBut we cannot,” a Scath said.
    â€œShe holds the key now.”
    â€œShe is master.”
    â€œWe cannot defy her.”
    â€œNo,” Rigby agreed, “no, you can’t. Not directly.” Rigby began to sketch once more on the parchment. He stopped and pointed. “Can you find this place?”
    â€œYes, yes, we knows it.”
    â€œWe have been there before.”
    â€œExcellent,” Rigby said. “I thought as much. Now, to the plan.”
    â€œWhat does it want?”
    Rigby wondered if his expression managed to convey accurately the mischievousness he felt. With a knowing smirk, he said, “I want you to kill me.”
    There was a hissing of Scath laughter. They said, as one, “Gladly.”

TWELVE
    S CATHING L OYALTY
    L ATER THAT EVENING , K ARA FLOUNCED ACROSS THE BED in her penthouse suite. Even the grand twinkling view of Baltimore at night couldn’t assuage the feelings that nagged her. Her plan—her meticulously orchestrated plan—had gone off without a hitch. She’d won. She’d beaten them all at their own game, forced the Rift, and figured out how to make the Harlequin Veil work.
    But that night at the hospital, the look on Archer’s face . . . haunted her. When she’d revealed that she was the Wind Maiden, he’d looked so utterly betrayed, so completely undone. And then, if that weren’t bad enough, she’d even taunted him with her success.
    â€œI gave the Shadow Key to the Wind Maiden,” Archer had said. “You . . . you’re the Wind Maiden?”
    â€œPoor Archer,” she’d replied cruelly. “You never had a clue, did you? Not even from my last name? Really? No? Well, now you know. It has been a good ride, Archer. A brilliant game of chess. But this is checkmate.”
    Back in the present, Kara flopped over on her side and stared at the mirrored closet doors. Though she fought hard against the feeling, she couldn’t shake the reality that she wasn’t completely satisfied by her reflection. She couldn’t fathom why she needed, not just to win, but to rub everyone else’s faces in it. The Nightmare Lord used to taunt people like that. Rigby had made an art form of ridicule. But it wasn’t like her.
    Then, she thought about the vault behind those mirrored closet doors. She thought about the Masters Bindings within. Perhaps the answer was there. Maybe she’d already found the answer in the Bindings, but it just hadn’t yet fallen into context. Hadn’t the Bindings spoken of the unique position granted the possessor of ultimate power? Was that it? Could it be that by her cunning and power—the Rift and the Veil—could grant everyone in the world a sense of ultimate peace and satisfaction . . . but not do the same for her? It was a maddening question.
    Kara rolled off her bed and calmly opened her closet to reveal her massive vault: six feet tall, four feet wide, and eight feet deep. “Kara Windchil,” she said, activating the voice recognition on the display.
    â€œPlace palm here,” the automated voice told her. She did.
    â€œKey combination.” Kara did. From top to bottom, the stainless steel bolts slid back, and the ten-inch-thick door swung open. When the fluorescent lights blinked to life overhead, she stepped inside and went straight to the set of shelves in the back. She selected volume four of the Masters Bindings, noted only by the crimson Roman numeral IV emblazoned upon its thick spine.
    She didn’t even bother to leave the vault. She knelt