FOURTEEN
THEY WERE MERE HOURS AWAY.
Two men connected by history, one her enemy, the
other ... Alexia didn't know about the other, not yet, but
knew that he meant to reclaim the girl she'd taken from
the snow machine. Probably the boy, as well. None of
them would be leaving, of course ... but she was looking
forward to the petty intrigues and overblown, self-important
dramas that their humanity would bring to her home.
She would enjoy the chance to observe their natural tendencies
and instincts before forever altering their lives.
She stood in the great hall considering things: possible
futures, her next transformation, the structural and
psychological changes her new synthesis would create
in humans, how she should welcome her new guests...
... and it occurred to her that her home, deep beneath the
ice and snow, might be difficult for them to achieve. She
immediately wished for the doors to be opened, for obstacles
to be removed ... and she heard and saw and felt
the result in the same instant, existing in a hundred
places at once as locks were broken and walls were
taken down, as debris was pushed aside and apertures
were widened.
She was prepared. Things would move quickly
now ... and what happened in the next hours would, to
a degree, define her choices for some time to come. It
was all still so new, the templates of her new life written
only in sand...
Smiling at her own poetic notions, Alexia went to see
about the first series of injections for the boy.
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