“Scarlett Johansson.”
Verity tilted her head to the side, listened for a moment, then beamed at Adam. “Alive and kicking!” Then, her face dimmed, as much as Verity’s face ever dimmed. “Ooh, though, in the thick of some trouble… But aren’t we all? Next.”
Tyler spoke. “Pentatonix.”
Before Verity could respond, Adam kicked at the leg of Tyler’s tilted-back chair, nearly unseating him. “Which one? You can’t do five at once – that’s cheating.”
“Fine.” Tyler shoved at Adam’s shoulder, retaliating for the chair-kick. “Shakira, then.” They tussled for a moment, pushing and cuffing like little boys. Or, thought Grace, like lovers who didn’t think they could be open about their feelings. She walked down the porch steps and headed for her favorite bench beside the irrigation pond, leaving them to their game of “Celebrity Who’s Alive and Who’s Dead?” The three of them had been playing for days, with Tyler a few points ahead at last reckoning.
The evening was cool in the wake of an afternoon thunderstorm, and Grace wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she’d grabbed her jacket. As if summoned, Persephone rose from her place between Verity’s feet and trotted down to join Grace. She leaped lightly to her lap, then curled up against Grace’s chest, settling in with a sigh. Grace curled her arms around the little dog and leaned to bury her nose in the musty fur on top of her head, loving her warm weight and familiar scent.
By this time tomorrow, she hoped to be dead.
Their plans were set. At dawn, she, Tyler and Adam would head for Fort Carson. Levi would slip into one of the positions he’d scouted on Colorado College’s campus and wait for the show that was Grace to begin. Verity was supposed to head back to Woodland Park with Persephone – Grace had begged, in spite of the futility of such a gesture, for a promise on that plan – but as soon as she thought the woman would follow through, Verity would make some comment about spending some “girl time” at the Broadmoor spa, or visiting the zoo to see who remained in residence. As with everything else about this plan, Grace could only play her role and hope the others met with success.
Her task, after all, was simple: endure. Whatever they dished out, she needed to take, until distant explosions on Fort Carson told her Adam and Tyler – “the boys” as Verity had taken to calling them – had destroyed the helicopters. If all went as planned, they would do so shortly after nightfall, just as the arena festivities were beginning on the CC campus. Their role was far more hazardous, in Grace’s estimation, than her own. They wanted to live to tell the tale; Grace would rather not.
And as far as Adam and Tyler were concerned, Levi had the hardest job of all: taking out enough of the gang leadership to prevent the current regime from re-forming and keeping Grace safe while he was at it. Levi and Grace had worked out a prioritized target list, and he’d studied her sketches for hours, asking her question after question about the men, the way they moved, habits she’d observed. In addition to taking out the leadership from his sniper’s nest, he was supposed to provide cover for Grace to escape. On that, though, he and Grace had a private agreement.
They’d been sitting at the dining room table late the night before, after Adam and Verity had already gone to bed. Tyler was on watch, and she and Levi had been going over some of the hiding places he might use if his escape routes were compromised. Grace had bolt holes all over the area, but only some of them were big enough for Levi to use. When they’d finished the task, Grace had asked him for a favor, as calmly as she would’ve asked him to pass the salt.
“Kill me, if they haven’t already. As soon as the shooting starts, they’re likely to kill me anyway. But if they don’t, and if some of them survive, don’t leave me alive.”
His cold eyes had reflected neither surprise nor dismay at her request. “There will almost certainly be some of them left alive. I can take out two for sure. Maybe three. After that, they’ll head for cover. Even with the night scope, I can’t guarantee better odds than that.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking.” She gazed at him, let him see her resolve. “Don’t let them make me pay for what we accomplish.”
She’d waited through the still silence of his decision-making process and had been relieved to the point of tears when he’d nodded his agreement. She had risen from the table, and rested a hand on his shoulder in gratitude for a moment before going on to bed herself. It eased her, knowing her suffering would not be prolonged.
And so, all was in readiness. Grace had been staying at the ranch to let her pepper-induced hives clear, and the boys had searched the area, bringing her back stylish clothes in her size, as well as toiletries and make up. She needed to look as different from her “Stinky” disguise as possible. If someone recognized her as the “boy” that had been skulking among them for months, their cover story would blow to pieces. She had taken a bath earlier today, soaking away the last of the grime of her alter ego, and was still enjoying the green apple scent of the shampoo the boys had brought her. The men’s weapons and supplies were also laid out and ready, firearms cleaned and oiled, ammunition divvied up.
The boys even had explosives they’d “liberated” from a group of “wannabe mall ninjas” in Green Mountain Falls, though they downplayed the story when Grace was in earshot. It was easy to forget sometimes, when they were laughing with Verity, whom they both now openly adored, or working together in the kitchen in quiet, companionable harmony, that they were predators. The group they’d raided hadn’t been able to defend their supplies, and therefore had deserved to lose them. Neither of them would lose a minute of sleep over such decisions, either. As Grace had begun to know them over the last several days, she had come to envy them the simplicity of that outlook, even though she could never share it.
She never forgot, though, not for an instant, that Levi was dangerous.
He stepped out of the same door Grace had exited a few minutes ago. Pausing for a moment to find out whether or not Tom Hanks was still around – he was not, sadly, though Verity said his presence in the hereafter was being enjoyed immensely – Levi stepped down off the porch and headed her way. He took a seat beside her, stretching out his long legs, and they sat in silence for a long, peaceful while, listening as the game rollicked on. After a time, Grace nodded her head at the boys.
“Why do they hide how they feel? They love each other.” She looked at Levi. “Are they afraid of you and what you’d think?”
Levi slid a sideways look at her, and for the first time, she got the feeling she’d surprised him. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “We’ve never discussed it.”
“When this is done, you should,” Grace said. “If we haven’t learned that, then what have we learned? Love is love. It’s stupid to turn away from it, whatever form it takes. You should let them know that it’s okay with you, if that’s what’s holding them back.”
“Yes ma’am.” The faintest thread of amusement ran through Levi’s voice, though his face betrayed none of it. “You left people who love you in Woodland Park. And if you make it through this, you don’t intend to go back.”
She didn’t ask how he knew. It was moot, in any case. The probability of her living long enough to make that choice was low. “That’s different. I left them because that’s how I can best love them. How I can best serve them.” She smiled a sad smile, remembering. “My dad used to say he showed his love for us by serving our country, by doing his part to keep us safe. I guess you could say I’m following in his footsteps.”
“For argument’s sake, suppose you do survive. Where would you go, if not home?”
“To Piper.” She didn’t know it until she said it. “I would find Piper and stay with her.”
She looked over at him then, wondering if he knew how his whole body changed whenever Piper’s name came up. He was rubbing absently at the center of his chest, staring into a middle distance, and Grace decided it was time.
“You’re Brody.”
His eyes snapped to hers, but he didn’t answer right away. Then, “How long have you known?”
“Subconsciously, from the start.”
They stared at each other, two people who kept secrets as naturally as they breathed, letting all subterfuge between them drop and dissipate on the cool evening breeze. Grace had thought about this moment, but she had not decided what she would say. What she should say. On Piper’s behalf, on her own behalf, she should have been able to come up with something. Finally, she asked the only question that mattered to her.
“Why?”
Brody looked away. He was silent a long, long time, but she’d learned to wait. If he didn’t intend to answer, he would have walked away. She’d learned much about him in the past several days, and in that knowledge lay the key to a door she needed to open. She hadn’t put all the pieces together yet, but she could sense the picture forming.
“Power,” he said at last. He looked at her straight on, no apology, no defense. “Control.”
She thought about that. “If you could bend someone as strong as Piper to your will,” she said slowly, “You could believe you were in control. Of everyone. Everything.”
He nodded, sharply, once.
“And you’re not sorry.”
He shook his head.
Grace looked away. She didn’t need or want to know more. What she’d suffered at the hands of the gang had been fundamentally the same. Look what we can do, had been the message. Look at the atrocities we’re willing to commit. We’re in charge. You can’t stop us. We have the power. Grace, as a person, had meant nothing to them. She had just been a female body upon which they could carve their message of might for all to see.
She thought he’d get up and leave then, or at least wait for her to ask another question, but he surprised her by speaking. “I don’t know how to be sorry. The path unfolds, and we walk it. We survive and learn, then move on to the next lesson. From Piper, I learned that control is an illusion. It’s a trap. You think you’re the puppeteer, and all along, you’re the puppet.” Again, he touched the center of his chest. “I won’t say I’m sorry for what I did to Piper. I had a lesson to learn, and I learned it. But I wouldn’t treat her so again.”
Grace turned her head slowly, taking her time in meeting his eyes. “Did you fall in love with her?”
Brody closed his eyes, then opened them. “I don’t think that’s in me. I wanted her to…fill an emptiness. I had something very specific in mind, and when she didn’t meet my expectations, I made her pay. By the time I figured out she’d been maneuvering me, that she was so much more than I had suspected, it was already ruined between us. Love can’t grow where you plant hate.”
He did leave then, left her sitting in the growing dark of a summer night, thinking about forgiveness and responsibility, justification and the complexities of the human experience.
They were very alike, she and Brody. They both preferred to think instead of feel, preferred to deal with data and logic. Emotions were unpredictable, feelings were frequently baseless. They were inferior as a basis for decision-making. Why, then, was Grace feeling a growing imperative in her chest to forgive Brody, to speak the words? Not on Piper’s behalf; she hadn’t the right. She didn’t understand the compulsion, but it moved in the depths of her, a Truth that was just beyond her ability to grasp.
As with any problem she couldn’t readily solve, she decided to leave it until morning. Her brain frequently sorted and rearranged as she slept, and in a day or so, she was likely to wake with the answer. She stood up, cradling Persephone in her arms, and it hit her: she might not live long enough for her brain to puzzle this question out. For the first time, the desire to live lifted its head and roared.
Grace set her teeth and forced her feet to follow the path back up to the house. She wished Verity and the boys a quiet good night, then carried Persephone upstairs to her room. She slept in the tiny room on the northwest corner of the house, what used to be the servant’s room, as evidenced by the mismatched wallpaper on the sloping walls and ceiling. She didn’t bother changing her clothes, just slipped her shoes off and lay down still cradling Persephone. She did not expect to sleep.
She had set this course, and she would not deviate from it. “The path unfolds,” she whispered to the darkness – her last darkness? “And we walk it.”
She did sleep, to her surprise, so deeply that Adam had to wake her in the dark before dawn. He took Persephone with him while she changed into the clothes they’d found for her – skinny jeans, a brightly patterned, slim-fitting top and brand new, black leather boots that rose up to her knees. She jogged down the stairs, then slipped outside to use the outhouse. Back inside, she commandeered the bathroom, where several hurricane lamps were already burning.
The makeup and hairstyling products seemed like archaeological relics. She picked the items up one by one, turning them in her hands, remembering her mom teaching her how to “make the most of her beautiful eyes,” remembering the line of girls in front of the mirror in her high school locker room, heads tilted back, mouths slightly open, as they applied mascara. She remembered painting her lips with strawberry-flavored gloss and pouting those lips until William gave in with a laugh and kissed them. She looked at the mirror, at the girl there, and realized she had no idea who she was anymore.
Fifteen minutes later she left the bathroom, hair scrunched and tousled, mascara and liner neatly applied, cheeks warmed with blush and lips subtly colored with a tinted balm. She felt self-conscious, as if she was overdressed at a party. Verity, Brody and the boys were waiting in the kitchen, and Verity clapped her hands, gasping with delight.
“Oh, look! Look what a pretty dolly our Gracie is!” Her hands fluttered around Grace, touching, adjusting, smoothing, each touch accompanied by a glow of golden light and a tingle down Grace’s spine. Her hands came to rest on Grace’s shoulders, surrounding them both with glow and warmth. Her blue eyes were ancient and tender. “There will be no pain,” she said softly, speaking for Grace’s ears only. “My brother told me. When you’re about to die, nothing hurts, and you will not feel fear. All your guides are with you, and the archangels as well. They will stay with you to the very end. You will never be alone.”
It stirred and rumbled again, the longing for life. So much to learn. So much to do and see. Grace twisted her hands together to keep from grabbing onto Verity and clinging. “You know, you could maybe do a Divine intervention sort of thing. Just walk in there with your Heavenly Host and,” Grace waved her hands, a hocus-pocus gesture. “End them. End this.”
“Beloved Grace.” Verity reached up to smooth a piece of Grace’s hair behind her ear, and for a moment, choir-like music resonated. “It doesn’t work that way. Angels don’t work that way. They leave us to our dramas and lessons and contracts, and they love us through it all. They don’t interfere with Soul Journeys.”
She leaned to press a tender kiss to Grace’s forehead, then pirouetted away to scoop Persephone up, as silly as if the moments between them had never occurred. “Give us a smoochie, Gracie, yes, smoochies for the yittle puppy.”
Grace obediently kissed Persephone, and Verity twirled away. Grace blinked at the sudden darkness, shivered at the sudden chill, and looked up to find Adam and Tyler both gazing at her doubtfully. “What?”
They exchanged glances. Adam gestured to her face. “You look beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but you’re too…too…”
“Tasteful,” Tyler finished for him. “And innocent.” He ducked into the bathroom, emerging a moment later with a handful of items. “Hold these,” he commanded Adam, and set to work. “Look down. Good, now look up.” He smudged and layered, swirling a tiny brush around her eyes in skillful circles, his big hands deft and talented. “I started out doing my sister’s makeup. Then, I did makeup for the school theatre productions.” He pointed a finger at Adam without looking away from Grace’s face. “And you can shut the hell up. I can kick your ass seventeen ways from Sunday, and you know it.” He held a tissue to Grace’s lips. “Blot.”
When he was finished, both he and Adam were nodding. “Much better.”
Grace leaned to look in the bathroom mirror. It was a shock at first, but after a moment, she nodded, too. Tyler had given her a mask, a hard-edged, used-up mask. Much more suitable to the day’s work than the subtle smoky eyes her mom had taught her, and her features – or rather “Stinky’s” features – were obscured. She turned, and this time, found herself the object of Brody’s scrutiny.
“Adam and Tyler will have to touch you,” he said without preamble. She realized that he was instructing them, as much as he was informing her. “They’ll have to disrespect you, handle you familiarly, maybe even hurt you, to convince these men.”
“I know.” She met Adam’s and Tyler’s eyes in turn. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”
A muscle was flexing in Adam’s jaw. Of all of them, he had the most trouble with this plan, with the risk Grace was taking. “I’m the oldest of five,” he had told her once. “And the only boy. Four younger sisters, all of them too cute for their own good. That’ll make a guy protective.”
Adam gazed at her now, squinting suspiciously. “We’ve been through every plan and contingency plan over and over,” he said, “But we’ve hardly talked about the rendezvous. Yes, we agreed to meet back here, but what’s our secondary?”
Grace and Brody exchanged a look, and Brody answered. “World Arena. Stay for two days, and if no one else shows, make tracks. If we don’t take everyone out, whoever survives will be hunting all of us.”
“And does Grace know how to find the World Arena?” Adam was not going to let this go.
“She does,” Grace answered, though she didn’t. Not really. She looked between Adam and Tyler and made a decision. “Before we go, I need to ask you a favor.”
Her eyes did not include Brody; she’d already burdened him, and in any case, this was not something he could do. “I have a daughter, in Woodland Park. She’s with my friend Quinn. Her name is Lark.” Her sweet name felt soft and loving on Grace’s lips, so she repeated it. “Lark. She’s just a baby, not even a year old. If this all goes to hell, I want whoever makes it through to get her out of Woodland Park. Make Quinn leave at gunpoint if you have to, but get her out of harm’s way.” Her eyes traveled between Adam and Tyler, and she knew she should feel bad, trading on the guilt they were feeling for wrongs they hadn’t even done her yet. But she didn’t. “Swear it to me.”
Adam huffed out a humorless laugh. “Jesus, Grace, you got any other bombs to drop?”
Grace smiled, equally humorless. “Yep. One of the men we’re going to kill today is her father. I have no idea which.”
“Christ.” Tyler’s face was stricken. “What the hell, Gracie? Haven’t you been through enough? Why didn’t you tell us before?”
“Because this isn’t about me.” She looked around at all of them. “This is for Lark. We’re going to give her a chance.” She turned and walked out the door. “Let’s go.”
They walked through dead streets, past wreckage and ruin, past the corpses all their eyes had learned to slide past. As they walked, Grace fell into a kind of trance, a place of free association and drifting memory. A song beat in her head, an old Coolio tune her dad had taught her when she was no more than three or four. How it had made him laugh, to see his dainty little daughter brassin’ and struttin’, flashing sign and rapping in her flouncy pink dress.
Her mom had hated that song, Grace remembered. Hated rap music, hated any reminder of Martin’s upbringing, of the cold and neglected childhood that had hardened him into a Marine. That had probably been the beginning of the end, Grace realized, in a small moment of clarity. How could a marriage survive diametrically opposed senses of humor? Should have seen the signs, Mom. You despised something that made him laugh. She wondered if her dad recognized how often Naomi made him laugh, hoped so, and walked on through the valley of the shadow of death.
The sun was nearing its zenith when they approached the main gate of Fort Carson. The boys had flanked her all this way, but now Adam took the lead and Tyler dropped back. Adam turned to look at her, his brown eyes locking onto hers.
“Show time, little sister.” He held two fingers up under his eyes, emphasizing the connection. “You get scared, you remember this, you remember me looking at you right now, promising you that we got you. We got you, baby girl.”
They walked right in, all smooth and swagger, violent men who owned a violent world. So fast, Grace thought. So easy. Just like that, they were trading military-speak, companies and battalions, fists bumping and palms meeting in whispering slides. Then, the rough hands on the back of her neck, the exclamations, the hard hand gripping her chin, forcing her head up for a better look.
“Fuck me,” a man spat. “It is her. Get Thompson.”
And then Sleeper was there. They didn’t need to force her head up this time; she searched his features, searched for resemblance, searched for Lark. No. Not him. He gazed at her for a long time with regret in his eyes, then shook his head.
“Radio north and tell them what we got going on. Then get the truck and load her up. There’ll be a hell of a show in the arena tonight.” He turned away, addressing Tyler and Adam. “You boys want to ride along and watch?”
Tyler spat on the toes of her dusty new boots. “Nah,” he drawled. He cupped the back of her head roughly, suggestively, and the men who had gathered around them sniggered. When he let her go, his fingers brushed her cheek in secret apology. “We’ve had her about every which way you can think of, and some ways I’ll bet you haven’t even imagined.” He turned away. “I’ll tell the man who buys me a beer all about it.”
“Shit, if you’ve got beer, we’ll draw you pictures and write out instructions.” Adam’s hand lifted as if to brush away an insect, his fingers briefly pointing to his eyes. “Thanks for the memories, cowgirl.” He, too, turned away. “Now, whatcha got that’s fresh?”
A truck rumbled up, army green with a canvas tarp covering the cargo bed. Sleeper ushered Tyler and Adam away as Grace was lifted inside. A man climbed in behind her, already reaching for the buckle of his belt. “However shall we pass the time, cowgirl? Never got a piece of you before. Gonna fix that right quick, bet your sweet ass on that.”
Sleeper spun around to walk backwards. “Pull up your god-damned pants, Fletcher. You’re going to deliver her just as fresh and pretty as she is right now, you got that?”
“What the hell for?” Fletcher’s voice was a grating whine. “They’re going to fuck the life out of her before they kill her, bet your damn ass on that. Why shouldn’t I take the first bite?”
Sleeper could move fast, faster than Grace would have thought. He was at the back of the truck, his hand fisted on the crotch of Fletcher’s pants before the man could even get them all the way back up. “In part, because I don’t like you. But mostly, because I said so. It’s called an order. So you keep this –” Sleeper’s hand squeezed, then jerked, hard. Fletcher gasped for air. “Zipped. If I hear you so much as got it out and waved it at her, I will make you profoundly sorry. And by the way, stop saying ‘bet your ass.’ It’s a crass expression and it irritates me.”
He released Fletcher, then walked to rejoin Adam and Tyler without so much as a backward glance. Fletcher collapsed on the seat across from her. As soon as the truck started, he began cursing, a steady, low stream of dissatisfaction and vitriol, some of it directed at Sleeper, some of it directed at Grace, most of it directed at the world in general. He kept it up until the truck ground to a stop after half an hour of swaying stops and starts. Grace rose, then crashed backwards when Fletcher’s closed fist caught the side of her head, full roundhouse.
“Take that to remember me by, bitch.” He grabbed his crotch in an obscene gesture, winced, then kicked at her viciously. “I’m looking forward to tonight, I really am. You’re going to beg to die, and I am gonna laugh and laugh.” He kicked at her again. “Bet your ass.”
A blur of people’s faces, staring, pointing, then Loudmouth parted the crowd, strutting towards her. He, too, grabbed her chin, cranking her head from side to side. “Son of a bitch,” he crowed. “You little slut, you missed us? Back for more?” Then his eyes narrowed. “Huh. You make me think of someone. Can’t think who, though.” He released her chin with a hard flick of his wrist, then grabbed a handful of hair at the back of her head, forcing her along beside him. “I got it from here, Fletch. Dismissed.”
Grace fought to pull air in and out of her lungs steadily. Her death must not be imminent, because Loudmouth’s grip in her hair hurt, hurt so much. He gave her a shake every now and then as they walked, making her eyes sting with tears, making her gasp, which seemed to delight him. As they walked, he crooned to her.
“Thought you were so smart, huh? Thought you were so damn smart. You got any idea the problems you caused us? You got away, and people started thinking. Started talking amongst themselves.” He shook her violently. “That’s why we had to start with the arena. Had to up the ante, show people the consequences of thinking and shit. All because of you, being so smart.”
Grace stopped walking, and ripped her head free, leaving him holding several chunks of her hair. What the hell did she have to lose? She was done just taking this. “Try ‘clever.’ It’s a synonym for ‘smart,’ and it keeps your speech from redundancy.”
For a few seconds, she actually shut him up. He stared at her, mouth agape, then round-housed her, fast as a snake. That hurt, too, an explosion on her cheekbone that made her spin and nearly stumble to her knees. Loudmouth caught her arm and jerked her to face him.
“Okay, clever bitch.” He hissed the words in her face, and she watched his eyes dart from side to side. People were watching, and he knew it. “Keep it up. Sass me again. See how you like the consequences.”
Grace crowded right up in his face, like she’d done with Karleigh in Woodland Park, and felt the same exhilaration seize her. “What can you do to me that you haven’t already done?” She hissed back. She looked around deliberately, and raised her voice. “Are you afraid these fine people will figure out you’re too stupid to know what a synonym is?” She raised her voice even louder. “Are you afraid they’ll figure out they’re better off without you and your scare-mongering, might-is-right posse of wannabe warlords? Are you –”
His next punch did knock her down, crunching along her jaw, filling her mouth with blood. She stared up at him from flat on her back, then leaned on an elbow to spit out a long, drooling stream of blood. She scanned the crowd around them, and shot her fist in the air. “Overthrow the grasshoppers! Long live the ants!”
She learned, then, what the expression “beat the shit out of” really meant. For as long as she could, she curled in a tight ball, covering her head from the raining kicks and punches. After a while, it stopped hurting, and everything started to fade in and out. Was this death coming? The thought was vague and not all that worrisome. Dimly, she was aware of being dragged along the ground, then into a building. She was dumped on a blessedly cool concrete floor. Then a door slammed. The darkness was broken only by a line of light under the door. Grace shut her eyes and either lost consciousness or slept.
When she stirred, hours later, her first thought was how badly she needed to pee. She tried to sit up and froze, moaning long and low. Everything hurt. She thought about books she’d read, about descriptions of surviving a beating, and put that theory into practice. Starting with her toes, she inventoried. They were okay, as were her calves – the boots had saved her. From there on up, it got ugly. Her lower back was on fire. The ribs on her left side creaked every time she took a breath. And some of the fingers on her right hand were either broken or sprained so badly, she couldn’t use them. Her head was okay, though not unscathed. Her cheekbone ached dully, as did her jaw, and she had a whopping headache. She lay there, wondering if she’d been foolish to goad Loudmouth like that, and decided it had been worth it. It didn’t matter whether she acquiesced meekly or went out kicking and howling. She was going out, either way. Might as well sow dissension and incite rebellion while she was at it.
She steeled herself and rolled to her hands and knees, breathing until the pain became bearable, then crawled around the room. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she could see the faint outlines of things: a messy stack of football shoulder pads, a mop bucket that still smelled faintly of ammonia, a tangled pile of jump ropes, boxes filled with cleaning supplies and the kind of paper towels that went in a dispenser. A catch-all janitor’s closet in the sports center, she’d bet. She pushed the bucket to the far corner of the room, then relieved herself in it. Just that simple act eased her discomfort considerably, and she sighed in contentment. It really was the little things. Then, she had to stuff her fist in her mouth to stifle wild giggles. Maybe she wasn’t altogether balanced, here.
She stood up and wobbled back across the little room, then slid down the wall next to the football pads. After a moment, she picked a set off the top and buried her nose in it. Yes, there, so faint but there: skunky boy. She thought about Friday night football games and William, and wondered, for the very first time, what he’d think of all this. What he’d think of her, now. How would it have been different, if he had been the one to survive instead of Quinn? She closed her eyes and swore she could feel William’s presence, his sorrow at this pass she’d come to, his loyalty to his brother, even beyond death. She could almost hear his voice. Quinn was the one you needed, not me. Quinn is the one this world needs. You can always trust him, Grace, always.
Grace opened her eyes and sighed, wondering idly if she was hallucinating, not really caring. She thought about Benji, then, sweet little brother, and her mom. She remembered making herself switch from “Mommy” to “Mom,” because it was what big girls said. “Mommy,” she whispered in the dark. She never let herself think of them, never allowed herself to remember all the people she’d lost. Her step-dad, all her friends, her teachers, William and Quinn’s folks. Where were they all now? Did they know what was happening here? What the human race had become?
And what had they become? Maybe that remained to be seen. Verity always said they were inhabiting the space between “no longer” and “not yet.” Grace’s thoughts shifted to the living, to the ways in which people had changed. Evolved. Naomi, and the depth of her connection to the natural world via her animals. Quinn, and his communion with growing things, as if he, too, sprang from deep roots in the Earth. Her dad, and his instinct for Truth.
And Lark.
Grace closed her eyes again and pictured her daughter, every detail she could remember. Wisps of dark hair. Curving pink cheeks. Tiny hands, chubby feet. She didn’t know how Lark had changed, but she knew for certain she had. The mystery of it was there in her sad, dark eyes. Grace pressed her hands over her heart and loved her daughter with all her might, and would do so with all the time she had left.
When the door was snatched open, she was ready. She smelled the fires, heard the thumping music and the crowd, and her legs wobbled. The past snapped at her from all around, memories of the violations and abuses, a rising flood that threatened to close over her head and reduce her to a wailing animal. She picked her chin up and breathed through it, rose above it. The man holding her arm – she recognized Little Man with a jolt – yanked and twisted cruelly, but it didn’t hurt.
No pain. No fear. I love you, Lark.
They were all there, gathered around what used to be the middle of the football field, seated shoulder-to-shoulder in a half-circle. Little Man forced Grace to her knees, then took his seat with the rest of them. The stands around them were packed with screaming spectators, their faces all open mouths and blood lust.
Slowly, with as much dignity as she could manage, Grace stood. She would not face this mock court on her knees. She looked around at every face. Bean Counter and Loudmouth, Little Man and Sleeper, the Giant. And the Boss, his two Trigger Fingers standing slightly behind him. Grace ignored all of them except for the Boss, gazing at him with quiet composure. She turned to look to the west where the sun was gone, nothing but a faint, creamy glow over the mountains. Her eyes lingered on the familiar outline of Pikes Peak, and it comforted her, knowing the mountains would witness this and go on. Long after she was dead, like her beloved monoliths in Garden of the Gods, they would remain.
She swung her eyes back to the boss just as the first, distant explosions rumbled up through her feet.
It took a few minutes for the crowd to fall quiet. Somebody cut the music, and the abrupt silence pressed on her ears. All the men were on their feet now, staring tensely to the south, where a bank of low-lying clouds glowed orange, yellow, and red. Explosion after explosion vibrated the night. She lost count after a while, and just closed her eyes, hoping with all her might that both Tyler and Adam would make it through safely, that they’d live on and love each other.
She kept her eyes closed, waiting for Brody’s shots to begin. On and on, time stretched, until it felt like her heart was beating once a minute. Still, nothing. Something had gone wrong.
She opened her eyes, and became aware that the explosions had stopped. The men were still all watching the southern sky, their faces grim, speaking to each other in low voices. As if he felt her eyes, the Boss turned his head to look at her.
“Do you know anything about this?”
It was the first time he had spoken directly to her, and Grace was startled by the ripple of power his words carried, the imperative push of them. She didn’t just want to answer him, she needed to. And so she did, smiling sweetly.
“Score one for the ants.”
There was a commotion in the crowd, then, a series of startled exclamations and a parting of bodies. Over the buzz, Grace heard a voice she knew well, polite, lilting, and insistent.
“Excuse us. Yes, coming through. Move aside, if you don’t mind – thanks so much!”
Verity. Persephone cradled in one arm, the other arm looped through the crook of Brody’s as they strolled across the field. And around them, the angels.
Grace blinked, and scrubbed at her eyes. You couldn’t see them if you looked straight at them, not really. They were a suggestion, a majestic force field of shifting opalescent light that rose above and around Verity and Brody. As they walked, Verity nodded and smiled, lifting her fingers in an occasional wave. Brody looked strange. He was wearing a bulky jacket, and there was something odd about his face. It took Grace several moments to realize what it was: No tension. No calculation. Peace.
They reached the edge of the group, and Verity released Brody’s arm, skipping to Grace’s side. She bundled Persephone’s quaking body into Grace’s arms, then frowned. “Oh, honey.”
She reached up and touched Grace’s bruised cheek. Then her fingers coasted over Grace’s ribs, slid around to her back, and ended with her fingers. Pain flashed and ricocheted everywhere she touched, making Grace gasp and flinch, but when she flexed her fingers, they obeyed. She caught Verity’s wrist.
“What’s happening? What are you doing? This is not the plan!”
Verity cupped Grace’s face between her delicate palms. “This was always the plan. Since the time before time.” She looked over her shoulder at Brody, then back at Grace. “He thought Piper would be the death of him, and all along, it was me!” She shrugged impishly. “Men can be so silly!”
“You told me angels don’t work this way – why did they change their minds?”
“This isn’t angelic, sweetie.” She winked. “Though they did get us in the door, I have to admit.”
Verity turned and looked over her shoulder, and Grace’s gaze followed. Brody and the Boss were standing, staring at each other, less than a foot apart. The Boss’s dazed eyes drifted to Verity, and his lips parted. His eyes narrowed, then widened, then narrowed again as he tried to understand what he was seeing. Verity twiddled her fingers at him and turned back to Grace.
“This is a reckoning. It’s mercy. It’s a good and faithful servant, going home.” She closed her eyes and hugged herself, the joy on her face as brilliant as sunrise. “My brother. We’ll be together at last.” Her eyes popped back open and she laughed, Christmas bells ringing. “Can you imagine the mischief we’ll get up to?”
She kissed Grace’s cheeks, both of them. “For the boys. Tell them I simply adore them.” She leaned to plant a final kiss between Persephone’s ears, then skipped back to Brody’s side. “Is there time for Grace to monologue? No? Sad day. Shall we, then?”
Brody nodded at her, then looked at Grace over Verity’s glowing head. “Tell Piper…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Never mind. Grace, run.”
He said it so quietly, it took a moment for his command to register.
She whirled, and dug in. Clutching Persephone to her chest, she ran as she had never run, ran for her life, for her life. The joy of it burst in her chest like a super nova. Behind her, shouts arose, panic and scuffling, then a strange whooshing sound. Noise and heat and light lifted her off her feet and threw her through the air, and her ears popped painfully. She twisted her body, trying to protect Persephone, and landed badly on her shoulder and side. She lay there, stunned, while all around her, flaming debris rained down. A partially burned chair landed in the stands, scattering the screaming crowd, and acrid smoke dimmed the blazing lights.
Persephone appeared in her field of vision. Her fur was singed and she was favoring one of her back legs, but otherwise she looked okay. She licked Grace’s forehead and cheek frantically, whimpering, until Grace reached up and curled an arm around her. Finally, she summoned what strength she had left and sat up.
Where Brody and Verity had been a moment before, there was a crater. Bodies, many of them torn apart and still burning, lay in a ring around the devastation. Two men appeared to have survived, one of them dragging a mangled arm as he combat-crawled away, the other being helped to his feet by people who had rushed in from the stands. Grace squinted. Bean Counter. And Little Man.
She continued to analyze the carnage, making sure, making completely sure, before she let her head fall forward, slumping in relief and grief. No one else. She looked up at the sky, at the swirling sparks, searching for angels. No one else. Grace struggled to her feet and picked Persephone up. As people around her screamed and ran, scattering into the night, she limped into the rest of her life.