Maximilian Ross was worried.

  He slouched against the wall of a brick building, the brim of his ball cap pulled low over his eyes. A few feet away, a set of concrete steps led upward to the building's front doors. People were climbing the steps and going inside, talking, laughing, eager, anticipating a good time. Some were well-dressed in suits or fancy gowns. Others, like Max, wore jeans and t-shirts. The Cult of the Dawn had no dress code, but Max could guess at which visitors had donated the most money to the cause.

  He glanced up and down the street, hoping in vain for help. A shouting cop, a honking horn, a little old lady needing help to cross the street. Anything to distract him from the growing urge to join the crowd and enter that building. The Cult leader, John Walter Watkins, was attending the banquet tonight, and he made people want to join the Cult. He had made Max want to join.

  But Max didn't want to join the Cult, not really. Not when he was home in the apartment he shared with three other teenagers, not when he was working at the grocery store, nowhere else in his life did he think about the Cult of the Dawn. Until Watkins emailed him an invitation.

  "I think manipulation is his power," Max thought. "He's some kind of psychic, and he's got his hooks in everybody here."

  Knowing it didn't enable him to fight it. Max straightened up from his position against the wall. Soon his treacherous feet would carry him up the stairs with everyone else. Already his mind was rationalizing it. There would be a great buffet in there, and listening to Watkins gush about Atlantis wasn't so bad. It wasn't manipulation if Max was choosing to attend, right?

  He took two steps and managed to halt himself, one hand on the supports of the steps. Traffic zipped back and forth on the road across the parking lot. The parking lot, itself, was still filling with cars. Max gazed out at the sea of vehicles hopelessly. Someday he would have a car. The bus wouldn't arrive for another hour. Plenty of time to grab a bite at the buffet …

  Max pressed his hands to his ears. No! I don't want to go in there!

  He made himself walk out into the parking lot and loiter near the first row of cars. At least here, he was out of earshot of Watkins's voice. His voice was what dragged you in and made you want more. And Max wanted more. He jammed his hands in his pockets and stood there miserably. Omniscient had never made him feel compelled to obey. Omniscient had simply been kind. Even now, a year after the smuggler ring had been broken up and Omniscient was dead, Max still missed him like a father. No matter what HeroTube said, Omniscient hadn't been a villain, not really.

  As he stood there, head down and hands in his pockets, a black Mercedes pulled into a free parking spot nearby. Max unwillingly admired the car's sleek lines and silver trim. Another rich cat come to donate a couple grand to the Cult. He watched to see who would emerge from the car--suit or dress? Suit, he bet with himself. It looked like a man's car.

  A moment later, the door opened and a man stepped out. Bingo, Max thought. But the man wasn't in a suit, oddly enough. He was a young man, probably not much older than Max's seventeen years, and wore black jeans and a button-up blue shirt. Business casual, the term was. The man, himself, had dark skin and hair, like a Mexican, and the kind of smiling face that belonged on a teacher at the head of a classroom--a smile with math behind it.

  The man stood looking at his phone, then up at the building, then at his phone again. After a moment, he glanced at Max. "Is this the old firehouse?"

  Max glanced at the red brick building. A firehouse? Now that he looked at it, he supposed it was. That explained why the garage on the left side was larger than the main building.

  "I guess," Max said.

  "Is John Walter Watkins there tonight?" said the stranger.

  "Yeah," said Max. "Don't go in."

  The stranger gave him a puzzled look. "Why not?"

  "He's some kind of psychic," said Max. "Once he gets into your head, he's got you. He's going to make me go in there soon, and I don't want to."

  The stranger scrutinized him. "I wasn't going in, actually. What's your name?"

  "Max." Max liked his name. Short, common, forgettable. He liked Maximilian better, but it was reserved for close friends and family. If he had any family. A stranger examining him would see a skinny white kid, blond hair, blue eyes, scattered freckles, nothing remarkable. Max liked going unnoticed.

  "I'm Indal," said the stranger, thereby making himself no longer a stranger. "I'm here to snoop. The Cult is up to no good and I'm here to find out what their scheme is. Think you could help me get into that garage?"

  "There's a couple doors around back," said Max. He sized Indal up all over again. "You're either a cop or a HeroTuber."

  "Neither," said Indal with a sudden grin. "Help me out and there's fifty bucks in it for you."

  "All right," said Max, cautiously. "Are we committing a crime? I'm on parole."

  "We're investigating to see if the Cult is committing a crime or two," said Indal. "If they are, I'm calling the cops. I'll conveniently forget I ever saw you."

  "Deal," said Max.

  Indal sauntered off around the parking lot, and Max followed him. "Make small talk," Indal muttered to him. "We need to look like Cult fanboys. Smile a lot."

  Max smiled at once. "What kind of shard do you have, Mister Indal?"

  "Arcane type," Indal replied, also smiling. "Atmospheric. How about you?"

  "Implant," said Max. "It does ice."

  "Implant, huh?" said Indal, drifting around the side of the old firehouse. "I knew a guy who paid for a bunch of kids to get shard implants. They were runners for a shard smuggling ring because they didn't have magic of their own."

  "Omniscient's ring?" said Max, lifting the brim of his ball cap.

  Indal nodded.

  "Then you must know Jayesh Khatri," said Max. "He healed me once after a bad run. When the ring broke up, he paid for us to have shards of our own."

  "I'll be darned," said Indal, studying him. "Yeah, I know Jayesh. He still worries about you kids. He'll be glad to hear I bumped into one of you."

  They reached the alley behind the firehouse. A dumpster squatted against the wall, its cover open to disgorge a rich smell of rotting food. Max and Indal picked their way around it and followed the back wall. The pavement was grimy and spotted with black blobs that had once been chewing gum. The hot Arizona sun had baked them into the concrete.

  Max pointed out two doors. "One goes into the main building, and one goes into the garage. But they're both locked."

  "Garage," said Indal. "Locks don't bother me."

  They advanced to the garage door. It had a padlock on the outside. Indal cupped a hand around the padlock and studied it. To Max's surprise, the padlock snapped open.

  "How'd you do that?"

  "Technical magic stuff," said Indal. That intent schoolteacher look had returned. Max could practically see the math problems flashing behind his eyes. Indal tried to open the door and found it locked on the inside, too. He stood there, both hands on the door, and seemed to be concentrating. Then the door clicked and swung open. Max supposed Indal had manipulated the air currents inside the lock or something. Indal stepped inside, and Max followed.

  The garage was five firetrucks long, and therefore it seemed the size of a soccer field. The far end seemed lost in shadowy distance. It was also half-full of boxes on pallets, some wrapped in shipping plastic. Others had been opened, the boxes carelessly scattered around. The evening light didn't illuminate the garage very well through the frosted windows, so Indal investigated while using his phone as a flashlight.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "What are we looking for?" Max asked.

  "Waygate stuff," Indal said. "The Cult keeps building them, and they're illegally imported from Atlantis. If I can give the cops pictures, they can get a search warrant."

  Max enthusiastically looked in boxes after that. The urge to enter the banquet hall was fading, but he still felt it tugging at his brain. This way, he could take revenge on Watkins for placing the compulsion on him. Waygates were giant portals that the Cult kept building to let the Atlantean Exiles back onto Earth. The Exiles were murderers who killed anything in their path. Nobody wanted more waygates built. Phoenix had enough problems.

  "No, no," Indal muttered. "This is all Cult literature." He picked up a pamphlet, read the cover, and dropped it into the box in disgust. "Let's try this pallet."

  Max watched as Indal produced a knife and cut the plastic off the boxes. Then he began opening boxes and setting them on the floor.

  "Won't they notice?" Max asked.

  "No," said Indal. "I'll put it back when I'm done."

  Max tried to lift a box, but it was too heavy, and it jingled. Metal waygate parts? He tore the box open for a look.

  It was metal, all right, but not waygate stuff. A suit of armor was folded up inside. It was black with bronze scrollwork, and strange symbols were etched all over it. Max picked up a breastplate and held it against himself. "Check it out. Exile armor!"

  Indal looked. "Why does the Cult need that, I wonder?"

  Max rummaged in the box and found a pair of boots, much too big, and various other small parts to cover shoulders and in-between spots. Then he found the gauntlets. One of them was a glove with flexible overlapping mail. The other was bigger, with a screen in the back of the wrist. Embedded behind the screen was a trackball the size of his fist.

  Max put the gauntlet on. "Look!" he said. "This has a computer in the hand."

  "Great," said Indal. He was taking pictures of the contents of a different box. "Found waygate parts. Go stand guard while I clean this up."

  Max walked outside, flexing his fingers in the gauntlet. "Can I keep this?" he called to Indal.

  "Better not," Indal called back. "Not if you're on parole."

  Max sadly looked at the gauntlet. It was so cool, though. The black armor overlapped in segments. Each segment was decorated with bronze patterns that formed flowers and leaves. Here and there, among the patterns, foreign letters were engraved in the metal. Too bad the rest of the armor was too big. He tugged at the fingers to remove the gauntlet.

  It wouldn't come off.

  Max yanked at it harder and harder, but the gauntlet stayed. It seemed clamped around his wrist. Worse, the more he struggled, the more panic rose in him, and the urge to cough came with it. No! He couldn't have an attack now!

  "Indal, it won't come off," he panted. He glanced inside the garage. To his shock, he saw that Indal had replaced the boxes and the plastic was again wrapped around them. The man must be a champion speed-cleaner.

  Indal looked up. "What do you mean it won't come off?"

  Max tugged at the gauntlet's fingers. It refused to slide free of his arm. One of the letters scratched into the metal began to glow blue. Had he triggered some mechanism by struggling with the gauntlet? Or a burglar alarm?

  Indal muttered under his breath and bounded across the garage. He tugged at the gauntlet, too, but it seemed permanently attached to Max's arm. Max coughed once.

  "Looks like it's yours for now," Indal said. "Uh, people will see this. Come on, this way." Suddenly he froze, one hand on the door jam, looking out into the alley. "On second thought, we need to hide. Dumpster, quick!"

  Max was no stranger to dumpsters. He had sometimes hidden in them as a runner, when the cops had staked out the pickup location. He ran and vaulted into the dumpster, landing on soft, squashy bags. Indal leaped in beside him and pulled the lid shut with a smack. Immediately the stink saturated Max's nose. He held his nose and breathed through his mouth. Inside him, the chill was beginning and the urge to cough tickled his windpipe. Indal peeked through the crack in the dumpster lid, then ducked. He pointed back toward the garage door with a thumb.

  Footsteps crunched on the dirty pavement. A voice said, "Door still locked, sir."

  "I swear I heard something," said another voice. "Open it and let's look inside."

  Max clenched his fist in the gauntlet and hugged it against his chest. The box with the armor was sitting open in the middle of the floor. They were certain to see it. He looked at Indal and pointed at his gauntlet.

  Indal shook his head and held a finger to his lips.

  I've committed another crime, Max thought. Except this time, it's petty theft instead of smuggling. My parole officer will haul me back to jail. He tugged at the gauntlet again, but it remained locked around his wrist. He glanced down to see that a second engraved letter had begun to glow blue. They formed a line up the gauntlet toward the trackball and the screen. Maybe the screen would turn on and let him shoot lasers or something.

  Outside, the garage door rattled open and the guards entered. Their voices were quiet and muffled for a moment. Then they must have found the open box of armor. Their tones changed, turning loud and angry. Max cowered lower in the garbage. His instincts screamed at him to jump out and run.

  As if sensing this, Indal reached out and touched his shoulder. He shook his head and again gestured for silence. Max kept still. If they were caught, maybe Indal would take the fall. He'd already offered to protect Max from the police.

  The guards emerged and locked the garage door again with an angry rattle. "But how did they get in?" one asked. "The doors were locked!"

  "Teleportation, maybe," said the other. "Or phase-shifting. Anyway, the boss needs to know."

  Their footsteps faded away down the other end of the alley. Nobody wanted to squeeze by a malodorous garbage bin.

  "Did you see where I parked?" Indal whispered.

  Max nodded. "The black Mercedes."

  Indal nodded. "Get out and walk around the building, this way." He motioned the opposite direction of the guards. "Get in my car and wait. Look bored. Pull your gauntlet inside your shirt and keep your hat down. I'll catch up in a minute and we'll escape."

  Max agreed, although he wondered if he was being inadvertently kidnapped. Better than being arrested. He lifted the dumpster lid and slid to the pavement, hastily pulling his gauntlet inside his shirt. The metal was cold against his bare stomach. Walking casually, he made his way toward the parking lot, his hat low over his face.

  John Walter Watkins was in full swing inside. Music was playing, and Watkins was lecturing about Atlantis's tragic fall. The smell of food wafted out. It would have been enticing, had not Max already been queasy from the garbage smell. Some of those bags had leaked on his jeans. Watkins's voice tugged at Max's brain, the compulsion beckoning. All Max had to do was flex his fingers and feel the gauntlet weighing on his arm, and he had all the willpower he needed to resist. He'd just ripped off an Atlantean treasure from a Cult of the Dawn leader. Watkins would probably melt his brain in revenge. Still, the compulsion whispered. What would happen if you walked into the banquet wearing the gauntlet? Would they hail you as an Atlantean hero?

  Max pushed that thought away as he reached the black Mercedes. Trying to act like he did this all the time, he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. Man, the car was plush. From the cushy leather seats to the rounded, sci-fi dashboard, to the polished wood on the steering wheel, the car breathed of money. How rich was this Indal guy?

  He sat with his head down and hat pulled low, the gauntlet still inside his shirt, resting against his stomach. The metal was growing warm against his skin. The thin fabric of his shirt couldn't conceal the blue glow of the letters. Three of them were lit up, now. Somehow, the sight of them reminded him of the chill in his lungs, and he indulged in a long coughing fit. Nobody could hear him inside the car, anyway. He coughed until his tongue frosted and his breath emerged in white mist. As usual when an attack hit, he coughed until something tore loose, and he spit out a chunk of bloody ice. He threw it out of the car. Then he groaned and lay back in the seat, closing his eyes. The attack died down, the bitter cold inside him gradually warming. His breath slowly came easier.

  Indal arrived at the driver's side, opened the door, and slid inside with the practiced movement of long use. "They didn't see me," he said, starting the engine. It purred to life, sounding just as powerful and expensive as the car's interior. Indal pulled out of the parking lot in a smooth swish of tires, and in a moment they were on the road.

  "Where are we going?" Max asked. His voice was rough from coughing.

  "How about a burger?" Indal said. "Then I'll take you home. Where do you live?"

  Max told him the address of the apartment complex.

  "Right," said Indal. "It's about ten minutes away. Oh yeah, also." As they halted at a red light, Indal pulled out his wallet, extracted two twenties and a ten, and handed them to Max.

  Max shoved the money in his pocket, left-handed. "You must be rich."

  "Rich is a relative term," said Indal in that schoolteacher tone. "Richer than you? Probably. Richer than John Watkins? No."

  Max finally jammed the gauntlet back through his sleeve and sat looking at it, flexing his fingers. Almost all the symbols were alight now. Only one was still dark. There was even a glowing symbol on the round trackball. He spun it with his free hand. It moved freely and it felt good. He fooled with it as Indal drove.

  "If you're not a cop," said Max, "or a HeroTuber, why are you messing with the Cult of the Dawn?" He held up his gauntleted fist. "In case you missed it, I'm in big trouble."

  "I noticed," said Indal, biting his lip. "And I'm responsible." He hesitated, then said, "It's complicated. I'm kind of … working on my own. Seeing what I can do. I never meant to drag anybody into this." He shot Max a long glance. "How are you involved in the Cult, anyway? You know a lot about them, but you were willing to cause trouble."

  "A friend dragged me to a meeting one time," said Max. "There was free food, so I went. And Watkins … his voice gets into your head. Makes you do what he says. I didn't want to go tonight, but his voice made me. I keep going back and I can't stop." He clenched his fists, one in black armor, one bare. "And I don't want to go back. I want him out of my head."

  He looked up to see Indal frowning at the road.

  "He's mindjacking," said Indal. "That's what a compulsion like that is called. It's illegal, but hard to detect." He turned off the road and entered the drive through of a burger joint. "Here's what I'm thinking. Dinner first. I'm going to send these photos to the Phoenix police as an anonymous tip. Then I'll see if I can contact Jayesh Khatri. He might be able to heal your brain."

  "Jayesh?" Max lit up. "He can heal mindjacking?"

  "I don't know," Indal said. "But he's healed plenty of worse things. I think it's worth a try."