seven

I felt like death when I awoke. That precise figure of speech made me laugh grimly, and then I wished it hadn’t because my head exploded. A tranquilizer hangover was one thing, but this was a whole new level of skull-splitting agony—a side effect of a concussion, most likely. I tried to lift a hand to feel my head, but my arm jerked to a halt.

It was cuffed with leather straps to a metal bedrail. I looked around to discover I was back in the hospital.

“Shit,” I said.

“Did I raise you to talk like that?”

I whipped my head in the direction of that voice—and cursed again as my head exploded a second time.

Drey only smiled and folded his hands in his lap, where a magazine rested. He was seated at my bedside, wearing a white button-down shirt and tweed slacks. A squat pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, and for once his chin was free of grizzled stubble. He’d never looked so clean-cut while driving the garbage truck. Nor had he ever read a magazine.

As odd as it was, seeing Drey after so long quieted all the fears that had been clamoring just outside the sphere of my immediate attention. If he was near, that meant Ryse wasn’t.

“Nice outfit,” I said, wincing. “You look like a nerdy professor.”

“And you look like a madman.”

“Thanks.” It was probably true, with my restraints and the hospital gown I was wearing. I gingerly leaned my head back against my pillows and stared at him, unable to contain the hope bursting in my chest. “Gods, it’s good to see you. I’ve missed you—I mean, since I’ve been here, never mind all that time I thought you were dead. I’d hug you, but … ” I waggled my cuffed hand at him.

Drey stood up and moved closer to the bed’s rails. “Not because you’re worried about killing me?”

I frowned at him. “Well, a little. Not really.” If I could keep from unleashing the Words on Ryse during the most out-of-control moment of my life, then I wasn’t too worried about how I’d be with Drey. Especially not with this headache pounding too loud for me to even hear my own thoughts, let alone the sinister, ever-present whisperings in the back of my mind. Still, it was a first to not have to worry about killing someone. “I think I’ve got it mostly under control now—”

“Too much control,” Drey said, echoing Swanson in a disturbing way. But then he lifted his hand and took mine. His fingers were as rough as sandpaper and as gnarled as always, which was somehow comforting.

I pretended to shake his hand with the limited range the cuff gave me. “Hi. Nice to meet you. I’m the Word of Death. What was your name again?”

Drey blew out an exasperated breath. “It’s Andre Bern­stein, as you must know by now, judging by that petulant smirk on your face. Though you don’t get to call me anything but Drey. Or Mr. Barnes, if you keep smirking at me like that.”

“I’ve never once called you Mr. Barnes, and I’m not about to start now, old man.” I hesitated, the so-called smirk dropping off my face. “What does everyone else call you? Dr. Bernstein?”

Drey’s smile faded too. “I haven’t been called that for a long time. But yes.”

“So why are you here?” That sounded harsher than I’d meant, so I asked, “Why are you allowed to see me now? Is this goodbye or something? Have they already decided to replace me?” My fears began to interject again, making me sound like how I felt inside: not like a scary, powerful Word but a kid, scared shitless.

“Not yet,” Drey said. “But they will, if you keep running your mouth about their ability to do so. That project is a secret, known only to a few Godspeakers and the City Council.”

I took the hint, not even needing to look for the surveillance cameras to know they were there. “Why, then? They’re not … they’re not getting rid of you now that I’ve screwed up so badly, right?” My voice came out more and more panicked. “What I did wasn’t your fault!”

“Shh, Tavin, don’t worry,” Drey said, patting my hand. “You haven’t done anything wrong. But this is my fault. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this happened to you.” Tears glazed his eyes. I couldn’t remember a time I’d seen Drey cry. “If only I hadn’t gotten you that job that sent you in here … Please believe me, I just wanted Swanson to see the man you’d become, and maybe give you a future—but, Gods, not this future. Not the one I thought I’d averted.”

He was still careful to avoid mentioning Swanson’s role in everything, even as emotional as he was. While people now knew that I was Swanson’s biological son, hardly anyone knew that Swanson had orchestrated my original escape as a baby. Most everyone thought it had only been Em, my mother and the former Word of Death, and Hayat, Khaya’s father and the former Word of Life, who’d faked my death and convinced Drey to smuggle me out of the Athenaeum.

“I thought you were safe from your fate as the Word of Death,” he continued. “Never in a million years did I think you would end up like this. But you did, and it’s my fault.”

Now I was really freaked out. This definitely sounded like a goodbye, or a confession before death.

“No, Drey, I was the one who broke Khaya out of here! I was the one who got her out of the city.” I searched for a camera, as if I could talk directly to whoever was watching on the other end, convince them.

It wasn’t entirely the truth, of course. Drey had helped us escape Eden City by providing supplies and a safe house; Chantelle, a prostitute I’d known most of my life, had hidden me and Khaya in an old utility room under a bridge; and Jacques, captain of a trash barge, had smuggled us out on his boat. But no one needed to know how much I owed those three.

“And I’m the one who’s deciding to be a shitty Word of Death now,” I went on. “Do you hear me? It was all me! They can’t punish you for—”

Drey shushed me again. “Tavin, Tavin. Listen to me. You need to worry about yourself, not me. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, you and I are going to be spending a lot more time together.”

“How?” I demanded. “What about Ryse?”

“Swanson suspended Ryse.”

“What?” I sat up in surprise, my back straightening as if I’d been zapped by Ryse’s stun-gun. I let out something halfway between a groan and a shout. “Gods, my head hurts!”

Drey plucked a pill bottle off the stand next to my bed, unscrewed it, and shook a couple pills into his palm. “Think you can swallow these?”

I was about to nod but stopped myself in time. “Yes. Now tell me what’s going on.”

“Stop talking and open up.”

I obliged him, impatient. He tipped the pills into my mouth and held a glass of water up to my lips like I was six years old again and he was giving me something for a fever, not for a concussion after a fight with a Godspeaker. I swallowed as quickly as possible and said, “Tell me.”

Drey sighed, setting down the glass and leaning both hands against the bed rails. “Ryse was pushing you too far, driving you insane. She was impatient because … ”

He didn’t finish, but I knew why Ryse was in a hurry with my training, other than just being a sadist. She had a deadline to get me functioning before her godspeaking would be rendered unnecessary. If an automaton was given the Word of Death, it would obey the Council’s commands without her special brand of urging—unless, of course, it went nuts and tried to kill everyone.

“Well, her methods were too harsh,” Drey said. “I knew it, but finally everyone had to acknowledge it after the debacle in the lab two days ago.”

“Two days?” I glanced down at myself. No wonder I felt as fresh as rotting road kill. “I’ve been out for a while.”

“You received quite the blow to the head when Luft blasted the door open.”

“He helped me,” I said with renewed surprise. “Or, wait … did he bust in to save Ryse’s life?”

“Both,” Drey said, looking down at his hands. “By saving Ryse’s life, he saved yours. If you’d killed your Godspeaker, it would have been a lot harder for me to argue with the City Council to give you a second chance as the Word of Death.”

“A second chance?” I repeated, both relieved and alarmed. “With Ryse? But I thought Swanson suspended her!”

“He did, Tavin,” Drey said quietly, meeting my eyes. “I don’t mean Ryse. I convinced them to let me try.”

I blinked at him. “Try what?”

“To save both of our necks. I know you better than anyone, and now that Ryse is suspended, I’m the most qualified, no matter how much they hate me for abducting you.”

“Qualified for what?” My voice rose, but he couldn’t mean what I thought he meant. There was no way.

Drey scowled at me. “Damn it, Tavin, don’t play dumb. This is hard enough as it is. I haven’t been a Godspeaker for almost two decades, but when I was, I was the best. I—I told the City Council that I could train you to do anything they want, like Ryse claimed she could do, but without driving you insane. And I can.”

I stared at him in horror. He shifted in my mind, like he’d done in the past when I remembered he’d been a Godspeaker, but this time, the shift was sickeningly disorienting … and permanent, even though in reality, Drey hadn’t moved from his place at my bedside. My hands jerked against their cuffs, fighting to get free—away from him. It was futile, of course. “How could you?”

Drey winced and averted his eyes. “Son, don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to help you.”

My head shook in denial, over and over, and the pain didn’t matter. It didn’t hold a candle to what I felt inside. All of my hope was tortured and dying, as if I’d used the Word of Death on it. “You can’t call me ‘son’ if you’re going to do to me what Ryse did.”

“Would you rather work with Ryse, then?” Drey growled, rounding on me.

“No!” I shouted. “Hell no! But why not … why not Swanson or something?” I would rather destroy my relationship with Swanson, since there wasn’t much to destroy. Drey was far more of a father to me than my biological one, by far. I would have chosen anyone but Drey.

Except maybe Ryse.

“He can’t,” Drey said, his tone impatient now. “As the head of the Godspeakers, Swanson doesn’t work much with individual Words; he oversees all of them and their Godspeakers. Of course, he’s always had particular interest in Life and Shaping. And Death came under his direct purview as well, shortly before you were born. But he appoints those Words with Godspeakers who report directly to him.”

I knew why Swanson had special interest in those Words. Life and Shaping, of course, had been the creative force behind the automatons, the creatures that would replace the Words against their will. And it was the Words’ will that had been the reason why the Council started building automatons in the first place—they wanted to get rid of the Words’ free will entirely, since it was a barrier to the Godspeakers’ full access to the Words’ power. We could still subtly resist the Godspeakers—and even resist our Words—through reluctance, stubbornness, fear, hatred, etcetera. Automatons, on the other hand, had no feelings, no will. It would almost be like the Godspeakers were Words themselves when godspeaking through the automatons. Minus the forced servitude, obviously. If they had the option, the Godspeakers would do things with the Words that we would never dare do. Things we didn’t even know we could do.

I also knew why Swanson had a special interest in the Word of Death. Although physical interaction between Words and Godspeakers was strictly prohibited—all pregnancies being the result of artificial insemination using genetic material donated by competing countries—Swanson had broken all the rules and gotten Em (a nickname for the Italian-inspired Morte) pregnant with me. So, naturally, he assumed more direct control of the situation in order to keep the secret from getting out.

“Swanson never actually took over any individual training himself,” Drey continued. “And in the case of the Word of Death, it’s a particularly challenging position that not many are willing to fill. At Swanson’s request, I worked as Em’s Godspeaker before I left the Athenaeum with you. Prior to that, I’d worked with Hayat, the Word of Life, and I found the change … disturbing. It was one of the many reasons I was happy to leave with you. After I was gone, a man took over, finishing up Em’s tenure as Death and then working with Herio until … there was an accident.”

I snorted. “Accident, my ass.”

Drey folded his arms, looking both stern and defensive. “You see why it’s not a popular position. With the Word of Death, there are occupational hazards beyond your average Word, and it requires a certain personality type: someone who likes toying with death. Not many people are like that. I’m not. The position was never again filled for Herio, since Herio always went above and beyond what was required of him. He didn’t need a Godspeaker to guide him.”

So that was why Herio had been able to keep his shirt on most of the time. Lucky bastard. Or not so lucky, seeing as he was dead.

“Swanson kept a personal eye on him,” Drey added, “but that was it. So while Ryse built a career studying the Word of Death, she never gained any practical experience until she was assigned to you, as your Godspeaker.”

“I’ll bet she couldn’t wait,” I said with disgust. “I mean, come on. Don’t they test for psychosis or sadism before hiring these people? Gods.”

“There weren’t many candidates to choose from. Not that I approve of their choice. That woman … ” He blew out a breath. “I don’t want to say what she is.”

“She’s a horrible bitch.”

“Watch your mouth,” Drey said, but without conviction. “And say what you will about Ryse, but the woman is sharp. No one else, Swanson included, has the depth of knowledge or skill necessary for your case. Except me.” He paused. “And besides, Swanson can’t work with you for other reasons.”

Drey’s expression filled in the gaps in what he was saying: Swanson couldn’t work with me after everything he’d done to try to save me from this life. It would be like digging his son’s grave.

“But you can?” I demanded.

Drey sighed heavily and took a step back from my bed. “It’s me or Ryse. Tavin, as much as you don’t want me to do this—as much as I don’t want to do this—wouldn’t you rather it be me instead of her?”

Silence hung between us.

“I figured you’d say yes, which is why I approached the City Council. Even if you say no, I might become your Godspeaker anyway, just to keep you from going the way you were headed.” He paused, letting silence fall again, but only for a few seconds.

The way I’d been headed was toward either insanity or death, and in less than a month’s time. Maybe this was my other option. I didn’t know how it was yet, but hope stirred feebly in me. It was battered by my other tumultuous thoughts, and yet it wasn’t quite dead, like me or my soul.

Drey half-turned for the door. “So, what’s your answer? Do you prefer me as your Godspeaker over Ryse?”

I hesitated. “Well, yeah. But you said it yourself—you don’t want this job either.”

“And I also said that you need to think about yourself right now. I’m willing to do a few things I’d rather not do … for you, Tavin. And what I’m asking in return is: will you do a few things for me that you’d rather not do?”

Apprehension wrung my empty stomach like a rag. This wasn’t yet sounding like a third option, just a more pleasant version of option one or two. “Maybe … it depends … ”

Drey slapped his leg, his usual motion to hustle me into the garbage truck for work in the morning. “That’s a good start,” he said. Then he asked abruptly, “How’s your headache?”

I squinted, as if I could somehow see inside my skull. “Better now. Why? Where are you going? We’re not going to work on anything right this second, are we?”

“Not exactly,” he said with a mysterious smile, and then moved for the door. “Let me introduce you to someone. She’s going to be your new partner.”

“She? Drey!” I hissed at his back, highly conscious of my hospital gown and the straps on my arms. “I can’t meet anyone like this. Look at me!”

“Trust me,” he said, knocking on the door with a chuckle. “She won’t care. In fact, she probably prefers you this way. You can’t defend yourself.”

My hiss rose to a rasp. “What?”

He didn’t answer because he was halfway out the door, speaking to someone else. Then he was backing into the room, something in his arms. He turned, and before I knew what was happening, he dumped a writhing, whining ball of fur into my lap.

It—she—was the puppy. The one I’d refused to kill. And she wasn’t scared of me now, especially in my vulnerable state. Her thin tail whipped like mad, wagging her scrawny body back and forth and beating against my arms and shoulders as she clambered her way up my chest.

“What’s she doing here?” I asked in alarm, craning my neck to look at her. “You’re not going to make me … ?”

Drey’s smile faltered for a second. “No, Tavin, nothing like that. Not her,” he added, giving me the sense of darker things to come. He’d promised to make me a good Word of Death, after all, not the Word of Butterflies and Rainbows. My hope faltered, too, but then he continued. “I saved her because she saved you, in a way. She’s yours.”

Saved me how? I wondered. How was my fate any different other than Drey was now the deliverer of it instead of Ryse? But I couldn’t focus on much beyond his reassurances because the puppy had reached my face and was trying to lick it off.

“Gods!” I sputtered, spitting as she licked my lips. I twisted away, but not far enough with my hands pinned, so she only staggered and wriggled her way back in for another attack. “Get her off me!”

Drey only laughed, a great booming guffaw that I hadn’t heard in a while. By the time he’d finished with it, the puppy had coated one cheek in slobber, and then my neck as I’d tried to tilt my face out of reach.

“I’ll pick her up when you name her,” Drey said, when he could draw enough breath to speak. “You know how important names are, so think long and hard.”

“Bastard!” I wailed helplessly.

“An inappropriate name … because she’s a girl!” Drey wheezed, tears of a different sort in his eyes. And then he bent over, having to brace himself against the bed.

I swallowed more curses to save time. “Okay, uh … ” I strained my neck even farther, hoping the white ceiling would give me inspiration. But the puppy blocked even that when she tried to climb on my face. Her short fur, which was about all I could see, was a splotchy black and white: piebald.

“ … Pie!” I shouted around the fur trying to work its way into my mouth. “Her name is Pie! Now get her the hell off me!”

“Pi, like the mathematical constant?” Drey asked in surprise.

“No, like the dessert!”

He finally rescued me, picking up the puppy and giving me a skeptical look over her squirming back. “Pie? That’s the best you can do?”

I scowled at him and tried to wipe my face on my shoulder, but my hospital gown was askew and I ended up only smearing slobber on the inky beginnings of the Word of Death. “I was under pressure, thanks to you. And what’s wrong with Pie? It’s good, it’s sweet, and it doesn’t usually attack my face. It’s a hopeful name.”

Pie could keep my remaining hope alive for me, in whatever pitiful state it was.

“Pie it is, then.” Drey set her down on the floor, and I heard nails scratching on metal as she immediately tried to scale the bedrails to get at me.

“She’s energetic,” I said, dropping back on my pillows. It was the understatement of the century. “And I think my headache is back.”

Drey cleared his throat, a funny tone coming into his voice. “Call her a belated birthday present if you want. You … uh … turned eighteen a month ago, on December 13th.”

I stared at him in bewilderment. “I have a birthday?” It sounded dumb as soon as I said it, but I was used to not having one.

“Of course. It’s only about a month earlier than the other Words’ birthdays, which traditionally fall in January after the New Year … though Herio’s was about nine months later than the rest because of your supposed stillbirth.” He cleared his throat again. “Anyway, I’ve always known the date, but I could never tell you until now.”

A month ago, they’d barely started letting me out of restraints or my hospital room—though perhaps not much had changed, seeing as I was back in both. I was officially an adult, a time when I was supposed to be free to make my own decisions, and yet I was anything but free.

Not to mention that in another month, I might still end up dead no matter who my Godspeaker was.

This meant that somewhere, Khaya was turning eighteen. At least she was free. I closed my eyes again. “Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any weirder.”

“I thought you might want to know,” he said, sounding hesitant.

I opened my eyes. “Of course I do. And thanks for telling me, and for Pie, and … the rest. I’m just a little overwhelmed by everything. Not to mention dizzy.” I felt oddly stretched—filled too full, and yet somehow hollow at the same time, like a balloon.

A fitting image, as far as birthdays went.

“You need some fresh air. How about you take Pie for a walk?” Drey began unbuckling the cuff on my nearest wrist.

I shot him a glare. “You could have let me go from the beginning.”

That probably wasn’t true. He’d likely been told to wait to release me until I’d agreed to have him as my Godspeaker. I didn’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t agreed, and I was glad I didn’t have to find out.

“But then I wouldn’t have been nearly as entertained.” Drey’s tone was both diplomatic and far too amused for diplomacy.

As soon as one hand was free, I attacked the other cuff, ripping it off me as fast as possible. I sat up all the way and sourly rubbed my wrists, then my face, wincing as I chafed a sutured cut high on my cheekbone. I was lucky the puppy hadn’t clawed it, and I shot Drey another glare for good measure.

“Come on,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder with a grin. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”