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e of her head. “Nope. No way. Those freaks were halfway to being los muertos, and, okay, maybe they weren’t brain-dead shamblers, but they’re not alive. They’re not people anymore.”
Spider flinched at her words. “How can you say that? Even the shamblers were people once. And it’s not like what happened to them is their fault. And now they’re dead because we killed them. I never wanted to kill anyone. Never.”
He shook his head and lapsed into a dangerous silence. Alethea tried to touch him, to give him reassurance, but there was no response at all.
When they were six blocks from the hospital, Spider abruptly turned and walked into the mouth of a shadow-darkened alley.
“Hey,” called Alethea. But she saw him drop his fighting stick. Saw him sink down into a low crouch and wrap his arms around his head. She saw his body shudder as the sobs—still unheard—tore through him.
Alethea pawed at the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
She straightened her tiara and went into the alley, knelt down, and pulled Spider into her arms.
Interlude Three Brother Mercy
FIVE YEARS AGO
“WHAT PATTERN DO YOU WANT?” asked the tattoo artist, Sister Ambrosia. “You look like someone who’d like thorn bushes, or maybe wasps. Something with some edge, am I right?”
Everyone in the Night Church had their heads shaved and scalps tattooed as a sign of faith and humility before god.
Brother Mercy glanced at a group of women seated on stools a dozen yards away, waiting for their turn with another artist. Leafy was among them. They had not spoken at all in the thirteen months since Mercy had fought the guards to try and save her. Girls and boys were kept apart until they had taken the full reaper vows and underwent the tattoo ceremony.
Leafy—now known as Sister Sorrow—already had her tattoos outlined: hummingbirds dipping their long beaks into the open mouths of lilies, datura, and honeysuckle. She sensed him watching and looked at him, giving a shy, brief smile.
He felt his face grow hot, but in a good way.
“Brother… ?” prompted Sister Ambrosia. “I can give you anything you want. Bugs, birds, fish…”
“Leaves,” he said.
“What kind?” asked the tattoo artist.
“Dead ones,” he said, remembering that sacred autumn day. The leaves in her hair had been withered, but all the more beautiful for that. It was as if death’s holy hand had touched her that day.
Sister Ambrosia looked at him, then over to Sister Sorrow, and then down at her tools. She wore a small and knowing smile that Brother Mercy did not see.
PART SIX NEW ALAMO
You have to keep your mind as wide-open as your eyes, because almost nothing is what it seems.
—TOM IMURA
28
THEY ALL MET BACK IN Mr. Ford’s classroom around ten that morning.
“Okay, campers, here’s where we stand,” said Captain Ledger, taking charge of the meeting.
Gutsy, Alethea, and Spider sat in a clump of chairs by the window. Benny and his friends were still clustered protectively around Chong against the opposite wall, as if their closeness could somehow protect him from reality. Ford, Urrea, Karen, and Sam sat on folding chairs between the camps of teens. Grimm and Sombra were asleep, back to back, in a broad patch of golden sunlight.
“Sam and I are going to be heading out soon,” Ledger began. “My hope is that we can work out some kind of deal with Collins—maybe even give her a pass to walk away in exchange for a crap-ton of the stuff we need to make more drugs, and enough weapons to stand a chance against the Night Army. Anyone have any objection to that plan?”
Alethea raised her hand. “It sucks.”
“I know it sucks, but do you have any objection to trying it?”
“No,” she said, adjusting her tiara. “You have my permission to proceed.”
