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“If Nulen told them everything, they should be glad we’re here,” Dylan says.
“Sounds like someone wants to be renamed to Ms. Naivete.” Rowan looks at Fabian. “Or is it Mrs.?”
Ariel’s pretty eyes turn flinty. “Her name is Dylan. And remember how you asked for us not to kill you just seconds ago?”
Looking more intrigued than intimidated, Rowan examines Ariel. “With that bravado, I take it your name isn’t Ms. Hotness McSexyBod either? Because that’s what I have in my head.”
Ariel stands up from her chair and gives its seat what seems to be a light squeeze.
With a loud crack, the wood shatters into tiny splinters.
Rowan’s eyes widen. “You’re one of those Strongmen types, aren’t you?”
“An uber,” I say. “And I wouldn’t piss her off. Or any of us for that matter.”
As if to highlight my words, Fabian crushes his chair as well, while Stanislav passes his hand through his.
Valerian must also show her something really impressive because her eyes widen and she mutters, “Is it possible to learn this power?”
A smile touches Felix’s eyes as he deadpans, “Not from a Jedi.”
Rowan grins. “I like you. What are you called? All I got so far is Skinny McUnibrowPants the Second Jr.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m Felix.” He points at his roommate. “That’s Ariel. And that’s Valerian, Bailey, Itzel, Stanislav, and Fabian.” He points at each of us in turn.
“Well,” Rowan says, “now that I know your names, I feel more invested in your fate—which is getting more dire with every wasted second.”
“Right,” I say. “How about we go?”
“Hakuna Matata,” Rowan says and exits through the door.
“Do we trust her?” Dylan asks.
Everyone shakes their heads.
“Do we trust this Parliament?”
The shakes are even more vigorous this time.
“Great,” Dylan says. “But I guess we have to go anyway.”
We head out of the prison-house one by one. Once outside, I spot Rowan standing next to a group of drab-looking zombies, plus a creature that reminds me of an Earth’s opossum, only creepier and cuter at the same time.
“Say hello to my little friend,” Rowan says, following my gaze.
The creature scurries over and grins toothily at me.
I step back.
“Oh, don’t worry. Frank won’t hurt you,” Rowan says. “He’s under my control, like the rest of the helpers. Aren’t you, Frank?”
Frank scurries back to Rowan’s side and looks exaggeratingly zombie-like.
“You have a dead pet?” Dylan asks.
“Are you sure you’d mind if I called you Ms. State-the-Obvious after all?” Catching Fabian’s narrow-eyed stare, she quickly adds, “Or it could be Mrs. State-the-Obvious, of course.”
Our translator visibly bristles. “I insist you call me Dylan. But allow me to state more obviousness. You lived on Earth?”
Rowan brushes imaginary dust from her leather jacket. “What gave it away: my skills with the tongue or my amazing mastery of American pop culture?”
“But isn’t your kind banned?” Dylan asks.
“I was incognito,” Rowan says. “Kept my head down. Pretended to be human. Didn’t raise corpses and have them stroll down 42nd Street willy-nilly. That sort of thing.”
“Aren’t we in a rush?” Valerian asks, looking impatient.
“Right.” Rowan’s face grows serious, an expression that I suspect doesn’t show there much. “Follow me.”
Briskly, she strides northward, and we follow.
Over her shoulder, Rowan asks, “Do you want me to play the tour guide?”
No one replies.
“That”—she points at a magnificent castle-like structure to our left—“is the church of Mor. He’s the god everyone here believes in. Oh, and they worship him hard, so don’t say things like Mor be damned, or by Mor, or Mor take me, and so on. Especially not in front of anyone in the Parliament. They don’t like it. I speak from experience.”
Stanislav groans. “Do you ever shut up?”
Rowan turns and peers at him intently. “Something’s off about your eyes. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
The chort snorts, and Rowan proceeds to explain the local religion, which, among other things, preaches that when a soul leaves the body, the proper way to revere the leftover shell is to turn it into a helper.
“How convenient,” Felix says. “I bet humans willingly bring you corpses to turn into zombies.”
“Don’t use the z-word in front of the Parliament,” Rowan says. “They don’t like that either.”
Two good-looking women in nice leather clothing cross the road and give Rowan the evil eye. When she ignores them, they say something in Necronian—and though I’m no linguist, I catch a distinct nasty undertone.
Rowan smirks and responds with something equally snide.
The two women upgrade their evil eyes to death glares. One even goes as far as to spit in Rowan’s direction—a gesture that should be outlawed throughout the Cogniverse, as far as I’m concerned.
Frank, the weird opossum, rushes at the spitter and promptly bites her toe.
The woman shouts something, grabs her friend, and rushes away.
“What was that about?” Felix asks Dylan.
“Something about some person named Keyser making a huge mistake. What she”—Dylan nods at Rowan—“replied with must’ve been some slang I didn’t recognize.”
