“Okay,” I said, thunking a blank leather journal on the edge of Ren’s cluttered computer desk. “The Dearly House Exit plans.”
Renfield Merriweather peered at the tome. Skinny in life, he’d become a scarecrow in death, all elegant half-revealed bones and long limbs. He wasn’t nearly as hardy as the other dead boys, which was why he almost always stayed behind as base support, wherever that base happened to be. He found his spectacles on the desk, somewhere amidst all his mixed-tribe gadgets and computer equipment. “Why hasn’t Griswold had me digitize this? I could cross-reference maps, databases …”
“He prefers to work it out on paper.”
“Benighted fool.” Ren, NV that he was, loved his tech. Although he shared the guest room with the other lads, his computers and other toys had come to dominate one side of our attic—the other side belonged to the dead priest, Jacob Isley. Surrounded by stacks of papers and books, Isley was still solidly asleep on his cot, stretched out like a body on a mortuary slab. Cats lounged everywhere. Isley had a thing for them, and took in as many strays as he could.
“No time for names. We need to double-check the carriage situation, the weapons situation. We follow this, we can all get out of here in under ten minutes if it comes to that.” I’d decided that I couldn’t spend my time moping. I needed to work, to contribute.
“Has everyone else been informed? From a logistics standpoint, that should be our first concern.”
“Everyone except the sleeping wonder there. Chas should be up soon. She wanted to tell her mom.” Looking to his computer array, I found myself staring unfeelingly at the steam-holographic projector I’d once seen him use to play Aethernet chess with Vespertine Mink. “The others went to the boats. Which is precisely where I want to be. If things go wrong—” I pressed my lips tightly together before anything else could slip out.
“I don’t think that would be very wise, Miss Dearly. We don’t know if our assistance is even required.”
Tearing my eyes from the desk, I said, “I hate sitting around and waiting, though. I don’t know about you, but it makes me go insane.”
“Yes, I figure I’m already more insane than not.” Ren’s posh northern accent only augmented his sarcastic delivery.
“I am not in the mood for jokes! Remember the last time this happened? When I was at Z Beta Base and no one would tell me anything, no one would let me go anywhere or help …” That was a big part of it. Logically I knew I had no reason to leave the EF, but I loathed being kept on the sidelines.
“We’d probably create more problems if we did go.” Ren brushed a few curly auburn locks out of his face. “Look. Are you afraid this development will make the living want to round up the dead again?”
Ren was incredibly observant for a dead guy who needed glasses. I nodded once.
“Well, keep in mind that some of our people fought for their dead. They didn’t hunt them down and kill them indiscriminately, like the Punks. No one’s called for the new pro-zombie Prime Minister to step down, have they?”
“No. Not yet.” I had to keep reminding myself of that. “I just don’t like this. Only a few months ago the government tried to kill every dead person. Permanently.”
“I know. Zombies have every reason to be distrustful of the authorities. But those of us who have a firm grasp on reality know that we need to keep our wits about us.”
Opting not to say anything, I opened the book, my stomach still in knots. I could only pray that Renfield and Dr. Chase were right—that cool heads would actually prevail. They had, for a while. There was hope, just … no certainty.
Not like we hadn’t played with those odds before.
Before I could do anything else, Chastity Sweet appeared in the doorway. She was a tall dead girl with bleached-blond hair, blue-tinged skin, and a silvery metal jaw covered with hand-carved designs, a prosthesis designed for her after she lost hers during a mission for Z-Comp. Uttering a strangled sound to get our attention, she unhooked a digidiary from her leather belt and opened it, holding it up so we could read the screen. Her throat had been crushed during the battle with Averne back in December, and her spelling hadn’t improved much since then: Mom wok up n turned on the news n there are fites going on in the city. Beside the note, she’d drawn a little mushroom cloud with a frowny face.
Its eyes were X’s.
So much for cooler heads.
Once the news broke about the new riot taking place on the docks, everyone in the house knew they would have to work together to keep me corralled. It was the only way.
As soon as Aunt Gene’s former butler, Matilda, woke up, Dr. Chase stationed her at the front door. Matilda didn’t seem to mind. The poised, ebony-skinned woman was content to sit on the floor in front of the door with a lap desk and a toffee bar, going through the household bills.
“Have you seen the letters your aunt’s creditors have been sending?” she asked me absently one of the times I edged into the foyer to glare at her.
“No, and I don’t want to.” Aunt Gene had gotten us into massive debt before her disappearance. I supposed I should count it as unfinished business, but the fact that she was most likely dead sort of wiped the slate clean.
Alencar, the chauffeur, manned the back door. He bowed whenever I walked past. Dr. Chase and Renfield insisted on shadowing me, so I kept moving, pacing. As I did, I turned my cell phone over in my hands. Bram had bought both of us phones back in February for my birthday—a gift that was extremely practical, and thus extremely Bram. His was plain and grudgingly used; mine was a minisculpt, black, shaped like a mermaid hugging her tail against her head. Bram wasn’t currently responding. My father hadn’t answered any of my e-mails in days, and every time I tried to call him, I got a busy signal.
For hours I remained in a state of infuriating helplessness, practically a prisoner in my own home. I knew the others weren’t trying to be cruel, that they only meant to protect me. But in moments like this, I understood what Bram and I were up against. The riot two weeks ago had been the turning point for me, when I finally got that the real enemies we were going to have to face weren’t Wolfe and Averne, but Time and Fear. How little time I would have with him, and how fear could cut that even shorter. More than just being with him—I wanted to stand beside him on the front lines. I’d gotten a taste of freedom last winter, and it almost physically hurt to have to return to my old life of manners and rules.
I wanted my new life back.
Eventually Dr. Chase and Dr. Samedi sought me out, and found me walking in circles in one of the long back hallways, underneath one of my father’s favorite mythological murals. “There you are, Miss Dearly. Baldwin and I are going to install Miss Chastity’s voice box.”
This was enough to get me to look up from my phone. “I thought it wasn’t finished yet?” Sam had been toiling over her artificial voice box for months now.
“Funny thing. I mentioned how much better it’d make me feel if Miss Chastity could talk, given all that’s going on.” Dr. Chase glared at Dr. Samedi. “That’s when he chose to inform me it’s actually been completed for almost a month. He was enjoying the quiet. I’ve already boxed his remaining ear.”
Samedi slipped a hand into his chestnut hair and adjusted his stitched-up head slightly, tweaking it to the side. The zombie’s skull was full of hardware that allowed his brain to communicate with a thick metal collar installed around his neck, permitting his body to move even when his head was severed from it. A tremor zipped down his spine, and he narrowed his gray-lidded, feminine eyes. “Thank you. You just admitted that if I do go deaf, it’s only because external forces are constantly assaulting me.”
Dr. Chase shook her head and looked at me. “Would you like to help?”
In spite of everything, I found myself asking excitedly, “Really?”
Just then my phone rang. I looked down to find that it was Pamela Roe, my best friend. “Is it Dr. Dearly?” Samedi asked.
“No. Pam.” I didn’t have to say anything else; the two adults nodded and saw themselves out. “You okay?” I asked upon opening the phone.
“Yes.” Still, Pamela sounded nervous. “You’ve heard about the new strain? I’m just calling to let you know I probably can’t get down there today.”
“Yeah. Sorry I didn’t call sooner, myself.”
“Dr. Evola hasn’t been home.”
“He’s probably working overtime.” He’d been rooming with the Roes ever since the Siege, preferring to stay closer to the hospital ships. “Look, why don’t I come over there?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, but no way in hell, Nora. The city needs time to calm down. Dad won’t let us leave the house.”
“That’s why I’ll come to you.”
“Not a good idea. And your father wouldn’t like it.”
“Who said I’d tell him?” She made a disapproving noise in response. “Besides, Pamma, not even the ravenous dead can stand between you and me.”
“Don’t remind me. And don’t you dare. Please give me one less thing to worry about.”
Rolling my eyes heavenward, I said, “Fine. Anything I can do for you from here? Otherwise, I’m going to help the docs with something.”
“No, there’s nothing you can do. I’ll call you if there is. I’ll text you later anyway.”
Frustrated anew, I hung up and considered just leaping out a nearby window and running for the surface. My imagination extended this little adventure to include clobbering an army man, donning his uniform, and marching toward the nearest disaster.
In the end, for Pam and Papa, I went in search of Dr. Chase.
It turned out that “helping” didn’t add up to much more than handing the engineers tools. It was hard to be contented with that, but I tried.
Chas was set up on the desk in my father’s dark, masculine study. Every lamp in the place was positioned about her, since the windows were still boarded up. The initial phases of the “operation” involved cutting into her throat and scraping and snipping all the ruined flesh away. Samedi let her keep her digidiary, and she occasionally wrote things like, Dont u think I need that? or Tckls! in response to his actions. After perhaps forty minutes, the device itself—a curious golf-ball-sized construct of metal and wire—was popped into her neck.
Admittedly, watching Baldwin and Beryl at work was absorbing. The first time I met them I’d been told they were an amazing inventive team, and they truly did seem to function like two bodies sharing a single mind. He could make a suggestion and she’d already be halfway done with it, reaching for a spot welder or twisting a plastic cap into place. Occasionally they would murmur together like two soothsayers puzzling over a goat’s entrails, completing one another’s sentences.
“Stitch or staple the remains of her trachea …”
“… bottom should replicate a ring of cartilage, I thought. Stability. No more smoking for you, young lady.” Sam leaned back, tucking his scalpel between his lips. Sterility wasn’t a concern when operating on the undead, obviously. “All right. Speak.”
“I’m no-ot a do-og, you kno-ow,” Chas responded, her first words since the battle in Bolivia. Aside from sounding somewhat computery, it was definitely her own voice, only healthier than I remembered it. She seemed to speak somewhat laboriously, though, her neck and chest rolling noticeably as she fought to get the words out. She moved to sit up, and Beryl aided her.
“Chas!” I hopped up and wrapped my arms about her shoulders from behind. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Tell … me ab-out … it.” I could see the muscles of her throat flexing as she remembered how to use them.
Samedi shooed me out of the way so he could study his handiwork. “There. Let’s get the wires in, and then I think the best way to close this up would be to install some small D-rings along either side of the incision and have her lace it up until the skin stretches to accommodate the new hardware. Then we can put in a permanent suture.”
“I think you’re right,” Dr. Chase said. “Miss Dearly, can you hand me the pliers?”
Chas turned excited eyes on Sam. “Like a … neck corset? No, I’m keep-ing the … lacing! I can use different … colooored … rib-bons!”
As Samedi reached past me for an additional bit of wire, I heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by the unmistakable voices of the undead boys. Without waiting to see if anyone else had heard, I raced for the door and down the hall. It seemed like it took an hour to reach the foyer, when in fact it took only seconds. “Guys!”
Bram was at my side before I could say another word. I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed as hard as I could. He curled his huge hand around my head, guiding it to his chest, and I took advantage of the opportunity to rest my eyes and lean against him, if only for a brief moment—had we been alone, I would have happily remained there. “Everyone good here?” he asked.
“Yes. What’s going on?”
“The usual.” He urged me back, his hands on my shoulders. “City’s in an uproar again, troops and cops are spread thin. Never enough of them.”
“Great.” I stepped away a few beats later, a proper young lady once more, and turned my attention to Coalhouse and Tom. “Are you guys okay?”
“Oh yeah,” Tom said, his peeved tone belying his words. “Just disappointed that alcohol doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to anymore, that’s all.”
“Your girlfriend’s in surgery,” I told him. “Sam’s done with her voice.”
Tom’s bald eye ridges jumped in surprise, his lips splitting into a sharklike grin. Coalhouse chuckled. “Really? This I gotta see.”
Something in his sentence set the other two off, because their expressions transformed from “there’s no place like home” to “oh, hell no” in the space of two blinks. “You know, you only see with one of those lumps in your head,” Tom said. “Maybe you should give the other to me for safekeeping.” He extended a hand, frowning.
“That was not acceptable, what happened back at the docks,” Bram said to Coalhouse.
“Can we talk about this later?” Coalhouse asked, glancing uneasily at me.
“No. We talk about it now.” Bram pointed at his useless eye. “I don’t care if you wear it when things are quiet, but you’ve got to take it out whenever there’s the chance of action. You knew this back at base.”
“But this isn’t Z Beta. There are people on the streets, they’ll see me …”
“You’re a zombie. If you’re not missing body parts, you’re doing it wrong!” Tom yelled. “You put us in danger today. And it’s because you care what you look like?”
“Danger?” I asked, only to be ignored.
“Oh, and he didn’t?” Coalhouse pointed angrily at Bram. “Like he didn’t flip out?”
“What?”
My tone of voice was enough to arrest them, to stall their dispute. Still, they all had that funny, stiff “zombie pack” posture—like their bodies were ready to throw down if dominance needed to be physically established, even if their minds had yet to consciously go there. I’d seen it before.
Bram cleared his throat. “We’ll get into it later. Go see Chas.”
“Guess I’m not the only immature one, huh?” Coalhouse said, before stomping in the direction of the hall. Tom shook his head, then followed.
“Immature?” I asked once they were gone. “What’s the matter?”
“Let’s just say that I’m more pessimistic now than I was this morning.” Bram reached for me again. “I’m glad you didn’t come. I would have been worried sick.”
I pushed his scarred hand away in annoyance. “Talk.”
With a rumble, he said, “We had to take on some zombies, okay? Back up the army. Thankfully, it didn’t turn into a bloodbath.”
“Oh God.” Cue me immediately feeling like a jerk. “I’m so sorry.”
Bram shrugged, though I could tell he was still troubled. “Let’s get everyone settled and then we’ll talk. We’re safe, that’s what matters.”
Respecting this, I gave up. Even though I still had questions, suddenly I wasn’t half as worried as I had been. The Punks could take over the world with giant mechanical dinosaur clowns and I wouldn’t bat an eyelash. No matter what might be happening, no matter how many fires might be burning, being with Bram always seemed to make things at least feel better.
He was okay. He was here. He was home.
Now I just needed my father.
“We can’t do anything right now. I went over to the Erika and spoke to Salvez already.”
“I swear, if I hear that phrase one more time …” I kneeled on my chair. “Anyway, what did Salvez say?”
“Like Dr. Chase told us—the Laz has mutated.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“I wish I knew, Nora.”
It was dinnertime, and Bram was trying to get some food in him—the usual. Tofu. Protein used to trick his body into thinking it was getting the flesh it wanted, mixed with a digestive enzyme since his stomach no longer worked. Between statements, I gave him five chews. Under the kitchen table dad’s Doberman pinscher, Fido, begged.
“You didn’t see Papa at all?”
“No. I asked for him, but got the runaround. Like usual. Every time I go over there lately, he’s busy. I feel kind of shut out of the research side of things.”
“Is it dangerous there? Should we be worried about him?”
“I told you about the living mob and the zombie attacks. We left once it got calmer and more army reserves arrived. See? I’m not holding anything back this time.”
“I want to see him, Bram.” I leaned my elbows on the table and fixed my gaze on one of the household signs Dr. Chase had used her talent with calligraphy to create: ZOMBIE-ONLY SILVERWARE GOES IN THE CANISTER . “I just want to know that he’s safe.”
Bram chewed five times. “Give him more time. The news just broke earlier today.”
“I know. And I know that he has the world on his shoulders. That’s why I’ve tried to be respectful. But Bram … I can’t do this anymore.”
Looking into Bram’s eyes, I could see that he understood. “I’m getting to that point myself. Somehow I’ve ended up a grunt on the ground again. Still fighting people. But I am not army anymore. Don’t want to be. Problem is, now is not the time to pitch a fit about it. We’ve got to stick together. Do what needs to be done.”
Putting my head in my hands, I tried to think. Bram patted my back, wiped his mouth and said, “Look, I did get some info.” Lifting my head, I saw that he was cleaning off the fork and knife he’d used to eat with. “Here—I get to do the medical briefing this time.”
“Go for it.” It was better than nothing. I pillowed my cheek on my folded arms, turning my head to watch.
“So, you know the illness that makes zombies is fluid-borne, and caused by prions.”
“Yes.” I knew that prions were proteins, technically the same as other proteins already located in the human body—simply shaped differently, and thus diseased. They were wont to bend healthy proteins to look just like them, causing a deadly chain reaction that, in the case of the Lazarus, reanimated the dead.
Bram held up his knife and fork. “So imagine these are prions. They’re made of the same stuff—both metal, in this case—but they’re different shapes.” He stuck the tip of the knife through two of the fork tines. “Let’s say the knife is the ‘bad’ one. So the knife sticks to the fork, and reshapes it. The fork turns into the knife.” He spirited the fork under the table, leaving the “new” knife. “And it goes on to stick itself into another fork and change it, etcetera, etcetera. Eventually the infected person hits the ground—and in the case of the Laz, sits up again.”
“And we’re all terribly grateful for that.”
Bram chuckled, and brought the fork back out. “Now, proteins are made of amino acids. The way the antibodies created by your father’s vaccine are supposed to work is …” He used the fork to spear a leftover glob of tofu—just on two tines. “They stop up the gap by sticking to a specific amino acid chain. They plug up the hole.” He mimed the tip of the knife trying to connect to the fork and encountering the blasted tofu. “The bad one can’t bond with the good one, so infection can’t take place.”
“So what makes the new form able to bypass that?”
He slid the base of the knife between two other, unprotected tines. “The connection is made between a different set of unprotected amino acids.”
“How?”
“Prions are capable of evolution, even though they have no DNA of their own. The question is, when did this mutation come about? Why haven’t we seen it before? Is Patient One the only one with it, or is it present in other zombies? Did he get it from someone else?”
“Patient One?”
Bram lowered his educational cutlery. “That’s what the researchers are calling the biter. They haven’t managed to identify him yet, and word is he won’t talk. Both infections trace back to him. The zombie who bit your dad all those years ago is the first zombie on record, and they call him Patient Zero. They never found the ‘first ever’ zombie, the one who made Patient Zero—he has to be dead by now.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No.” Bram frowned. “Salvez did say they’ve already put your samples under the microscope, though.”
“And?”
“You’re still immune.”
“Goody. Let’s hold a parade.” I knew my nigh-miraculous immunity stemmed from my own stubborn genetic makeup, not antibodies. Still, I asked, “So what happens if there are other strains out there?”
Bram didn’t respond immediately, studying his plate. “I don’t know right now,” he decided. “We have plenty of options, but none of them are good.”
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “What if we have t—”
“You stupid, rotting fool!”
Jerking my head up, I looked over at the kitchen door just in time to see Dr. Richard Elpinoy, my father’s top geneticist, stalk past. A door slammed and my father hobbled up behind him, supporting himself with a mahogany cane. The dark-skinned, white-haired Dr. Elpinoy’s trench coat gaped in front, the buttons barely connecting over his stocky frame.
“Come back here!” my father bellowed. “Come back here and look me in the eye when you say that!”
“I’ve said enough!” Elpinoy turned and glared up at my father. “You’ve spent the entire day moping about, practically praying for death, as if you suddenly agree with Wolfe! That traitor! I’m half inclined to give you what you want!”
I’d never heard my father or Elpinoy speak like that. I was so shocked that I momentarily forgot to exclaim over the simple fact that Papa was home, or even leave my seat. Bram appeared absolutely dumbfounded.
“Are you threatening me, you pompous piece of—”
“Threatening you? Hardly! I’m telling you that your behavior’s unacceptable! And I think you know it, too!” Elpinoy dared to put a finger in my father’s face. “I’ve been with you since almost the beginning on this—you asked for me by name. We were colleagues at school. You trusted me once, and I’ve been telling you for years that the final cure to this whole hellish mess lies in genetic engineering! In substituting a new protein for the original Zr-068 protein, thus rendering the diseased prion impotent. You have one last chance to turn your research in the right direction!”
“And I told you,” my father roared, swinging his cane at nothing in particular, “that solution would be too difficult and expensive—oh, not to mention stupid as hell! What are you going to do, change the genetic makeup of everyone on earth because of one illness?”
“When that illness causes the dead to come back to life and hunger after the flesh of the living? Yes!”
“Vaccination is the easiest and most robust method of combating the Laz!”
“It took us years to come up with a vaccine! We do not have years to come up with another! And what happens if a new strain arises? And another, and another? What do we do then, Dearly? Tell me!”
I started to stand up, and Bram followed suit. “Why is Dick challenging him all of a sudden?”
Elpinoy heard Bram, and finally turned to look at us. “I’ll tell you why!” He stormed into the kitchen and got right up in Bram’s face, forcing him back. “That bastard is going to get us all killed, that’s why!” Fido slipped from under the table, slicking his ears back and growling at Elpinoy. Bram caught him by the collar.
For the last few minutes I’d been numb. Now my entire body went hot. “Don’t you dare call him that!”
“I’ll call him whatever I like, missy!” Elpinoy rounded on me. “I’m leaving. I’m not about to march to that man’s insane drumbeat anymore. Unless drastic measures are taken, the Laz is just going to keep mutating until it’s turned the entire world into a graveyard. I’m not about to let that happen!” He turned to my father, who was entering after him. “I quit.”
Bram’s mouth dropped open. “Dr. Elpinoy, you can’t do this!”
“Oh, I can. I quit. Do you hear me, you stubborn rotter? I quit!” With that, Elpinoy started to stomp away. “I’m clearing out my room! I’m leaving this accursed house!”
“Go!” my father thundered a few steps closer, almost getting my foot with his cane. “I never want to see your face around here again, you hear me?”
“Papa!” I reached out to capture the sleeve of his coat. “Calm down. Please, just calm down and talk to us?”
“Nora?” My zombified father looked down at me with his dark, milky eyes, his entire body going still.
“I’ve been trying to call you for days.” I traded his sleeve for his wrist, and felt how tense he was. Consciously or not, he was prepared for the hunt, for the fight. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I could tell he was trying to disguise his anger, but he wasn’t fully successful. “Go to your room, NoNo. I’ll be there soon.”
I shook my head. “Come with me. You need to rest.”
My father tossed off my hand. “I’m fine. And you don’t need to worry about me. You have Mr. Griswold to look after you.” He looked at Bram and uttered a short, phlegmy laugh. “I won’t be here forever, after all.”
Bram let go of the dog and stepped forward. “Sir, she’s right. You need—”
“I will tell you what I need if and when I need it!” Papa shouted. We were both taken aback, and said nothing in response. For a moment I saw despair wash over my father’s aristocratic features, before they hardened once more. He marched out without another word.
Bram took my hand again. I didn’t even feel it.
Bram didn’t ask questions. He knew that I needed to get away. He went upstairs and got a gun for himself and a hat for me, and took me outside. He tucked me into Aunt Gene’s carriage, and together we headed for the surface.
The drive was slow and quiet, apprehension thickening the air between us. I was still trying to decide if I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen, or if I was only frightened by how easily I could believe it. Papa’s anger reminded me of Samedi’s fight with Wolfe. During that final encounter Samedi’d gone about his violent business so easily, so passionately—his reanimated mind and body aligning, like a series of dark stars, to the task of beating and biting Wolfe. The idea that my father might be capable of the same thing made my skin crawl.
Compared to what I’d seen on the news the city had quieted down significantly, though parts of it still appeared on edge. Even through the closed windows I could hear sirens in the distance. Bram chose a route that took us off the main streets but kept us close to the EF, and we ended up driving through an upper-class neighborhood—nothing like the dominions of the very rich in the countryside surrounding New London, but nice enough—where several houses stood with their front entrances thrown open to reveal lavishly-lit interiors, the fences surrounding them bedecked with flowers and strings of electric bulbs. Competing parties—maybe debuts. Well-heeled ladies and gentlemen walked past, laughing, seemingly ignorant of the current state of the world. The Season was on.
Seeing them actually gave me some hope, though it was impossible for me to enjoy the sensation. More smothering mourning crepe had been sold in the last few months than snowy debutante satin, and yet some people were still celebrating, carousing, living. The entire city should look like this.
After allowing me a few silent minutes to marvel, Bram started back, turning onto West Herbert Avenue. The lights were on in the police station there, and people were still tramping in and out—most of them clad in black. Everybody was in mourning for somebody. Shops were closing down for the day, peddlers packing up their street carts, and the few people abroad seemed to hurry from one pool of lamplight to the next, wary of the shadows. Living people either tried to stay close to the zombies accompanying them or attempted to avoid the zombies they passed entirely.
I finally rubbed at my eyes, and Bram reached over and touched my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. I felt like I should cry, but I was too confused. “He’s never spoken to me like that. I mean, I half think I deserve it for some of the things I’ve done, but still …”
Bram pulled the carriage over to the side of the road and took my hand once more. I gave in and let myself tear up. He leaned over and kissed my clothed right shoulder, where he’d once bitten me, and my cheek.
Shutting my eyes, I tried to concentrate on the sensation of his touch. “He’ll come home to scream at Elpinoy, but he won’t answer my e-mails.”
“He’s scared,” Bram said, his deep voice right in my ear. I could almost feel it in my bones, more nourishing than my own blood. “Like you said, he has everything riding on him. But he loves you.”
“I know. He’s done this before—thrown himself into his work. After my mother died, he did the same thing. I know I have to think of it that way. It just hurts.”
Bram looked down at my hand at the mention of my mom. “Yeah.”
Releasing a shaky breath, I said, “I still keep wishing things would just go smoothly. For everyone.”
“Chances of that happening?”
“Slim to none.” Doing my best to convert a hiccup into a sigh, I wondered how much I ought to rant—for I knew half the things I wanted to complain about were petty. I wasn’t so consumed by my own drama that I couldn’t see it. “He didn’t even see me. He didn’t want to deal with me. And he thinks he gets to tell me what to do? That he knows what’s best for me?”
“If it’s worth anything, I need you.” Bram wrapped me up again, and tangled his fingers in my hair. “You guys aren’t the only ones feeling the pressure. I lost it, for a few seconds. Beat up some guys spouting conspiracy theories that sounded an awful lot like Averne’s. They said your name, like they had any right to, and I went off. That’s what Coalhouse was talking about.”
This statement didn’t offer me any comfort. It caused me to hook my chin worriedly over his shoulder and loop my arms around him, eyes on the carriage window. He’d told me he had maybe three years left before he gave into his illness, lost his self-control, and so three had become a mantra of mine, my lucky number.
I didn’t want to think about the fact that he’d quoted that figure four months ago. So two and two-thirds left. Or less than that?
“You’re the only thing around here that makes sense sometimes,” he whispered against my temple. “You remind me of what’s important. What I have to lose. I feel safest when I’m protecting you, caring for you—I feel at peace. So whatever you need me to do, tell me. I’d put a bullet in my own head for you.”
I clutched him with renewed intensity, another tear escaping my eye. This was never going to end. Even if we did leave New London.
Behind Bram the window of the carriage exploded with a suddenness that threatened to stop my heart. A pistol—though to my panicked mind it resembled a cannon—was thrust through it, and for a moment I thought I’d been shot, my cheek stinging. As Bram turned, roaring, I saw the air glittering and realized I’d been hit by broken glass. The gun hadn’t been fired.
“Bram!” I screamed.
Behind the gun—seemingly miles behind it—stood a figure wearing a mask crafted of some sleek black material. It looked as if it’d been modeled after a crow or raven, with an enormous downward-curving beak and eyeholes filled with smoked glass. It would have been comical if whoever wore it hadn’t had a weapon trained on me.
“Careful, Brother!” I heard someone else shout, the voice electronic and ghostly. “They’re insane!”
Terrified, caught off guard, it took my brain a moment to make sense out of what the gunman yelled. His voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, warped, distorted – like Chas’s. “Get out of the carriage, necroslut! Do it now! Take your dead man and get out of the goddamn carriage!”