10: The Eldest Oyster Winked his eye

And so began the days when the terror that we created ruled the world. We had been carefully cultivating it for so long, but even Jack could never have predicted the outcome—the outcry—created by the destruction of the Reproduction Clinic. It was covered ceaselessly by the news for two days, and then slightly less frequently for several more, until Jack found means to kill the head geneticist at the clinic. And his direct inferior. In one night. And then, the media coverage seemed not about to stop—it was a constant outpouring, continual commentary. Newspapers, magazines, television—national coverage, too. Always, in national news, there had been a blip for us—a 'the terrorism continues' message, but now we were discussed. Debated. Investigated.

And they'd been in a world without crime for so long that they couldn't find one damn lead. We waited for it. We waited for the sound of helicopters, or a fleet of cars. We waited, for the first two weeks, to be surrounded any second by armed men. But none came. And no mention was made of our remote home, with its barn, and its cellar, and its fifteen occupants.

But their ears were cocked for our message. Their eyes were peeled for any sign of wrongdoing. The Devas, with their peaceful ways, had suddenly gone mad, it seemed. Anyone was turned in on the slightest suspicion of wrongdoing—Deva, Animal, anyone at all. We had turned their world upside down and shaken it. We had brought worry to the highest office of government, and The Pious Order, and even the lowliest Deva. We had brought chaos to their ordered world, at last.

But I barely noticed it. I passed my days in relative tranquility at the soda shop, even as the rest of the world screamed and rushed, and held vigils for the unborn souls that I had murdered. Occasionally I went to visit Beatriz—for she was due in no time. And all other time I spent with Thistle.

I spent more money on her than was prudent—we went to the movies, or for fast food. We went ice-skating, or to basketball games at her old school, or just walked the streets of the city when we could find nothing better to do. But even then, I never tired of her. I never tired of her warm, open face or sweet laughter. I never tired of the way her hand fit into mine, or the way she'd stop in front of store windows and stare, and bite her lip, or the little noises she made when something surprised her, or even the way she ate. It was these little things about her that I grew to love, and I thrilled just at being able to see her doing them. At just being able to be near her.

And at night, she shared my bed, and I felt her wiry—beautiful—body move under mine. Sometimes later, when she had fallen asleep and I could not, I would lean back against the wall, and just watch her—measure the sure, even rise and fall of her chest, or be consumed by the fall of her hair across her forehead, or the curve of her eyelashes. And I loved her.

Meanwhile, Jack and Magdalena fought less and less, and she spent more time alone in the kitchen, or in front of the television. She all but stopped pestering him to let her take a car into town, and he spent less time kissing her fingers across the dinner table. And they rarely fought at all. I would have realized the dangerous things that this portended…

But I barely even noticed it.

Sidney was at home less and less. He never ate with us, as was his usual habit, and I heard him come in at odd hours at night, if he came in at all. And even when he was home he didn't eat with us. He looked skinny, and sickly, and frequently dazed, as if he was receiving radio signals from outer space, or hearing the voices of the dead. This, too, I would have seen the danger in…

But I barely even noticed it.

"Lory," Jack said to me one day in early December. He was sitting listlessly on the couch, channel surfing, with booted feet up on the coffee table. "We haven't done anything in a few weeks. Why don't you and I take a few Sixes into town and blow up a gas station or something?"

"Oh," I said, hardly even listening, because Thistle was already waiting in the car. "Not today, Jack. I have other plans."

I saw him scowl as I left the living room, but thought nothing of it.

"Lory," Sidney said to me one day not long after. His eyes were wild, and glassy, and he clutched at the front of my shirt as if in pain. "Have you thought at all about what Gemma said? It's nearly Christmas. We've got to get out of the spider's web. What will we do?"

"Oh," I said, hardly even listening, because it was late, and Thistle was already upstairs. "Don't even worry about it. She's just a crazy old bag lady."

I saw the way he fell back on the couch and stared at the ceiling as I went up the stares, but thought nothing of it.

I thought of nothing, in fact, but her.

"Tell me a secret," she said one night, as she lay in my arms.

"What sort of secret?"

"One about you. Something no one else knows. Anything."

I killed your brother, was the first thing that came to mind, but I didn't say it. It felt like so long ago. I had been a wholly different person then, it seemed, from the man who now lay with Thistle.

"When I was small," I said, instead, "We lived just inside the woods, just like now. I don't remember how old I was, but I went wandering around up in the hills behind our house, and found some skeleton. A deer, or something, it must have been—big antlers. They were old bones, or they must have been, because they were clean. But it was still completely intact—no predators had carried legs off, or anything. I would take food and things up to it. Like a temple offering. …Not even Beatriz knew."

"That sounds very… esoteric…"

"It was."

"I know how children feel about things like that. Kids are more, I don't know… Savage, I guess, than adults."

"No. They recognize magic when they run across it. Somewhere along the line, we lose that."

"You're saying that there was magic in a deer carcass?"

"You never know."

She sighed. I could feel the rush of air against my breastbone.

"I guess," she said, "you had to have been there."

"Maybe."

She shifted her arm, and moved her hand to rest against my chest.

"Where do you see yourself in thirty years?" she asked.

"You're getting too deep for me, now," I protested.

"Do you see yourself anywhere at all? Do you think you'll do this your whole life?"

"I don't know why I wouldn't."

"Maybe some day someone younger will take over."

"I don't want to give it up. I don't think I ever will."

"Not even when you're sixty?"

"I… I don't know. Who knows if I'll even live that long?" I wrestled my arm out from under her—it was starting to cramp—and rolled onto my back. "Sidney and I, we saw Gemma the other day."

"Really? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think about it."

"Did she say anything?"

"She said one of us was going to die before the end of the year." I closed my eyes again and sighed. "I don't know if I believe it or not."

"Don't believe it. Because if you believe it, you'll make it happen."

"What if it's meant to happen?"

"I don't believe in fate."

"So what? People didn't used to believe the world was round."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because I say so. That's why."

"Because you say so," I repeated, laughing. "Where do you see yourself when you're sixty?" I asked.

"Maybe with grandchildren, and my own house. And one of those annoying little lap dogs."

"Really?"

"No. I don't want a lap dog."

"You'll have twelve cats, instead."

"Why stop at twelve?"

"Because if you get more than twelve, they'll mutiny and take over your house."

She laughed softly, sleepily, and moved closer to my side. I put an arm around her shoulders.

"Lory…?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me… What color should your hair be?"

"Dark. Darker than Sidney or Jack's. It was nearly black."

"How funny," she murmured. She was, I could tell, quickly falling asleep. "I wonder why electricity would do that."

"I don't know." I closed my eyes, and let myself drift with waves of fatigue.

"Lory?" Thistle asked again after a moment.

"Yes?"

"Don't you want to ask me anything?"

"No, Thistle."

"That isn't my real name, you know."

"Oh?"

"It's Lexina. Lexy."

"That's lovely."

"So, we're Lexy and Lory."

"Or Lexina and Alister, if you want to nit-pick."

"I think it has a good sound to it."

"It does." I kissed her forehead. "Goodnight, Lexy."

"Goodnight, Alis…"

"So, Lory…"

"So, Jack?"

Saturday evening, just after dinner, Jack approached me again. Thistle was beside me on the couch, and a cluster of the Newly Dead were on the floor. The television was set off of the customary news station, and was instead on a program about the mysteries of Stonehenge. I wasn't horribly involved in it, but nonetheless had no wish to move.

"What are you getting up to tonight?" Jack asked. He looked grumpy—arms crossed over his chest. Magdalena appeared in the kitchen door behind him. She glanced nervously from him to me.

"What'm I getting up to?" I repeated. I glanced over at Thistle. She withdrew her hand from mine, and I looked back at Jack and shrugged. "Nothing, really, I guess."

As I spoke, Magdalena crept out of the kitchen, clearly not wanting to attract Jack's attention. She padded past him, and to the stairs.

"We," he said, putting his hands on the arm of the couch and leaning forward with a grin, "are going to go clubbing."

I glanced at Thistle again. She was watching the television, but listening—I could tell—to us.

"I don’t know," I said. "I'm not in a clubbing mood. Sidney'll want to go, though, I bet."

"He's not here. It's you."

"Can't Magdalena go with you?"

"She doesn't want to go. She said she feels a bit sick." He turned, suddenly, to Magdalena, who was creeping up the stairs. "Unless you're feeling better?" he asked pointedly.

"No, Jack, I still feel kinda pukey," she said, hurrying up the stairs. "I'm gonna lie down."

He shrugged. "Deva side of town, Lory," he said. "We're not going for a good time—though lately, I don’t think you'd know a good time if it bit your nose off."

"If it bit your nose off," Kit said from the floor, "it wouldn't be a very good time."

"Know what, Kit?" Jack said. "You come too. Just for the hell of it. Maybe next week you can do your own little club-bombing."

"Awesome," Kit said, getting up. "Let's go."

"C'mon, Lory," Jack said, following Kit to the door.

"Isn't two eno—"

"Come on, Lory," Jack snapped.

"Sorry," I mouthed to Thistle, standing up and following Jack.

"It's fine," she whispered. "Have fun."

"What are we taking?" I asked, stepping after Kit onto the front porch.

"Four Threes," Jack said. "They're already in the car. So are our fake papers. I've got the detonator. …Y'know, maybe after, we should go to some other clubs. Animal clubs. We need to find you a real woman, Lory."

"What?"

"Someone your age."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Whatever you want it to."

"What the hell, Jack?"

He smiled over the top of the car at me—like he really was joking—and then ducked inside. I got in, too, and decided not to pursue the conversation further. In fact, I didn't talk most of the rest of the way there.

Jack parked several blocks away, and distributed the explosives. We walked back to his chosen club, where the crowd waiting to get in was enormous. Deva night-clubs were different from Animal clubs—and in fact, Animals weren't allowed in, which was why we needed fake papers. Whereas mere Animals such as myself have to rely mostly on outside chemicals to get a thrill, Devas have discovered that if enough of them get together and dance, and enjoy something, they all get a high. Shekinah Ecstacy, they call it. Say what you will about John Shepard's genetic refinement techniques, but he obviously didn't give them a gene for the ability to come up with names.

"Awesome," Kit said again, in a thoroughly air headed manner.

"But we'll never get in," I protested.

"Let's get in line, anyway," Jack said. "See how fast it's moving."

We did, and found that it moved very slowly, and I could only guess that more people were being turned away than were being accepted.

"We should have brought a few of the girls along," I muttered. "There's no way they'll let us in."

"Sure they will. We're interesting."

"Jack, I am wearing a cable-knit sweater. They'll probably laugh as they turn me away." In a crowd full of people dressed like tropical birds, I could only imagine what they'd think of us at the door.

"What the hell is your problem, anyway?" Jack asked me angrily. "You didn't want to come, and now you're bitching about being here. You wanna go home? Fine by me. Start walking."

"Jack," I replied, dismayed. "I don't want to go home. I'm just saying—they won't let us in. We should go somewhere else to do this."

"Oh my god," Kit said suddenly.

"What?" Jack and I asked in unison.

"Look, there are Seraphim at the door."

"What?" Jack asked, straining to see past the crowd.

I stepped out of line briefly and saw that, indeed, there were two Seraphim at the door, patting people down. The clubbers seemed to be putting up with it patiently.

"He's right," I said, and then wondered, "So what's going on?"

"Haven't you heard?" a girl standing in front of us asked. She was short, and slight, and there were feathers in her hair and glitter across her eyelids.

"Heard what?" Jack asked.

"They say that the Hungry Ghosts'll be here tonight," she said conspiratorially. "I heard the Seraphim got an anonymous phone call. Can't you feel it?—how nervous the Seraphim are?"

"Er, yeah… So why didn't they shut the club down?" he asked.

"They want to catch them, I think," she giggled. "I don't believe it, though."

Jack and I exchanged a nervous look.

"I don't want to go in there," Jack said, "if there's a chance that someone's going to blow the place up."

"No way," Kit agreed, and I shook my head, as well.

"C'mon," Jack said, stepping out of line.

"No, stay!" the girl called. "It's just a rumor! Nothing's gonna happen!"

"Not now," Jack muttered to me.

"What was that about?" I wondered, when we were out of earshot. "Anonymous phone call?"

"Well, that's a good question, isn't it?" Jack asked bitterly.

We turned the corner going to the car, and found another surprise: Sachever and Airial, a block down, headed quickly toward us.

All three of us ducked back around the corner in a rush.

"Did they see us?" Kit wondered.

"Don't think so," Jack muttered. "What could they be doing?"

"Clubbing?" Kit suggested.

"They heard about the phone call, somehow?" I wondered.

Jack's eyes narrowed.

"I'm sure that there's no better explanation," he said. "But let's concentrate on getting away. …Down that alley," he said, hurrying in that direction. Kit and I followed quietly.

"Just duck behind these dumpsters," he commanded, and we complied. In the silence that followed, I could hear Sachever and Airial talking as they rounded the corner. I flattened myself against the wall and peered out onto the street through the crack between the dumpster and the wall. And before long, Sachever strode into view, followed by Airial. Sachever's sword was in a scabbard at his side, and it didn't appear to be glowing. He didn't even glance at the alley as he passed, but Airial stopped dead in her tracks.

"Sachever," she said. "I…"

"You what?" he asked cautiously, if a little skeptically. "It's not another one of your 'feelings,' is it?" he asked, with aerial quote marks.

"Yes, it is," she said seriously, and then, simply, "I feel them."

"They're at the club. We know that."

Jack and I exchanged another look.

"No," Airial said. "They're here."

Sachever's immediate response was to look up—and I had to hold back laughter. Airial more pragmatically glanced across the street. Once Sachever determined that we had not procured a hot-air balloon, he too looked around the area. Then his eyes landed on the alley.

"There," he said, pointing. Airial's eyes followed his finger. Suddenly, she smiled. Turning back to him, she nodded.

"Yes, there."

Sachever nodded back, pulling his sword gently—almost lovingly—from its scabbard.

"Gaudium Gladius," he said very seriously. "Illuminate!"

And suddenly, the sword flared brilliantly with penetrating golden light that I had to turn away from. But it only lasted for a second before fading again, leaving the sword dull metal once more.

"What happened?" Airial demanded.

"I don't know!" Sachever moaned, smacking the hilt of the sword against the flat of his hand—rather like how one hits a broken flashlight.

"Illuminate!" he said again, with no result. "Gaudium Gladius!" he repeated, more forcefully. "Illuminate!"

And this time, it did, and the alley was filled for a moment with a light like dawn on the horizon, until the sword faded once more to the less-painful but still bright glow as at the Reproduction Clinic.

"Dammit," Jack mouthed.

"Come out!" Sachever yelled, brandishing the weapon more like a lantern than a sword. "We know you're there!"

I looked at Jack. After a second of hesitation he nodded, and pulled out his car keys. "Kit" he whispered. "Get the van and bring it around here. Hurry. Me and Lory'll hold 'em off, but if something happens to us, you don't stick around, all right?" He tossed the boy the car keys and then pulled out a knife. He stood, but I stopped him.

"Let me, Jack," I begged.

"You?" he asked. "Not when you've gone soft on me like this."

"There's no use hiding!" Sachever yelled again.

"I haven't!" I protested. "Let me show you! And Jack—you don't know what he can do. He was pathetic last time, but who knows if he's been practicing? He may be dangerous. The group needs you. Let me go."

His expression softened.

"Go, then," he said, handing me the long knife. "Don't get hurt."

"Thank you," I said sincerely, standing. I stepped out from behind the dumpster. Sachever readied himself, crouching into a fighting stance.

"Give me the explosives, or the detonator," he said. "Please. Don't hurt anyone—we can still end this peacefully. Just give me the detonator, and… and me and Airial, we'll get you the help you need."

"The help I need?" I asked, indignant. "What would that be?"

Sachever smiled.

"Love," he said simply.

"Love?" I scoffed. "What do you know about it? Who do you think you are?" I wondered, and then, bringing the knife up, charged him.

It was the attack that he'd been waiting for, and he quickly brought the sword up to meet my knife. The two made contact with a clang that made my wrists vibrate, but for a second only, because already we were swinging at each other again. Again the blades met with a metallic grinding. I stepped forward, driving him back a bit, and again we prepared to strike at each other without technique, without form—with anger only. I drove Sachever backwards another step, suddenly unsure of just what this was accomplishing anyway.

Sachever seemed to realize this, too. He tightened his jaw, and suddenly the sword glowed brighter. Again the blades met, but this time, instead of the anticipated feel of metal on metal, it was as though Jack's knife had met something indescribably soft, but with a definite biting edge—like wind, or fire. And with that feeling, I saw that Jack's blade had been cleanly severed. The upper half now lay on the ground between Sachever and me. I stared at it, stunned, and then looked up, back at Sachever, noticing dully that he had not yet taken another swing at me.

"What is that?" I asked bluntly, almost embarrassed by the awe in my own voice.

"Its name is Gaudium Gladius," he replied, a small smile playing over his lips. "And it's the Power of the Shekinah."

I could do nothing but shake my head in wonder.

"You could have that power, too, you know," Sachever said kindly. "All you have to do is choose love over hate—like Devas do."

That broke me out of my trance.

"Never!" I snarled, tossing the useless hilt of the knife away, and charging at him again.

"No, Lory!" I heard Jack yell, but it was too late. Sachever, left with no alternatives, had swung the sword up again, and was brining it down toward me. Reflexively, I put both hands up to stop its path.

It emitted another bright light as the blade bit into the pad of my thumb on the right hand, and I felt as if I were pressing my palms onto a hot stove. Only… different. Because it didn't hurt like that would. It didn't hurt like it ought to, I knew. The heat bit into my flesh searingly, but not quite painfully. This was, I was suddenly sure, the way that freshly-made stained glass would feel, if you touched it. As if God had been recently in the area. Holy.

Like lightning.

Suddenly, it really was like lightning. The sword's golden light was suddenly everywhere, filling my senses. It was going through me, filling me, like I was hollow—like I was only a road that it wanted to take to get to somewhere better, and beyond, and past the darkness into the dawn. It went through me as if I was as insignificant as Jack's blade had been against Sachever's sword. And I knew, in that moment, that this was true, and at once untrue—because the power was going through me, but the power was me, as well. It was everything. It was bright as the stars, the moon, the sun, and then suddenly… suddenly it was black as the depths of the Earth.

"Lory!" Jack was saying to me, shaking me. I was sprawled on the middle seat of the van, and laying halfway across him. Kit was driving, and Jack was in his undershirt. The sleeve of his actual shirt was tied tightly around my palm. Blood had soaked through, and the whole hand throbbed painfully.

Jack looked concerned.

"What happened?" I asked, sitting up. I felt groggy. I wanted to go back to sleep.

"I don't know," Jack said. "You caught the sword, and then fell over backwards—literally. Like, your head went back, and your body followed it down. Kit got there just then, thank god, and I grabbed you potato sack style, and we hauled ass outta there. That was so weird, Lory! Did it hurt that much—that you went under?"

I held my injured hand up in front of my face and looked at it, as if it might have some answer.

"No," I finally told him. "It didn't hurt at all. I don't know why I passed out."

"What was that?" Kit wondered.

"Gaudium Gladius," Jack told him, looking out the window, up at the sky. "The Power of the Shekinah." He turned back, and looked straight ahead. "I want it."

One hospital trip and several stitches later, we arrived at home. The house was dark, and quiet, and I went immediately upstairs.

There was a line of light under my door, and so I knew that Thistle was still awake. I knocked twice, lightly, and then went in.

She was sitting up in bed, reading an old magazine. She smiled at me.

"How'd it go?" she said first, and then her expression changed. "Oh my gosh! You're all bloody! What happened?"

I looked down. Indeed, there was a little blood from my hand on my sweater.

"Sachever happened," I said, crossing the room and sitting down on the bed.

"Did it work out all right?"

"No… Someone knew we were going to that club, Thistle."

"What?"

"Yes. The Seraphim were there, searching people. We never even got in. And then Sachever came, and… he's got this sword. He cut my knife in half with one swing, and my hand open. …I'm lucky to still have my thumb, Thistle. You should have seen it."

"Oh, Lory!" She took my hand in both of her own. "Does it hurt much?"

"I'll be fine," I said, smiling at her concern. "It's just… that sword," I continued. It was the memory of that light, that heat. The Power of the Shekinah…

"The glowing one? Oh, Lory, it's just a cheap trick; that's all."

"It was not," I said more fiercely than I'd meant to. "I mean," I continued, more gently, "you didn't feel it. It wasn't a trick. He called it… He said it was the power of the Shekinah. But how can that be? The Shekinah—well, they say it's just a… a sort of life-energy line, right?"

Thistle nodded.

"So how could it do this?" I wondered, looking at my hand, thinking about the knife.

"Any blade would cut your hand open, Lory," Thistle said. She wrapped her arms around me. "So forget about it. Come to bed."

"I'm already in bed," I said, falling backwards so that my head rested in her lap.

"You know what I mean," she chided.

"Yes, I know," I said. I reached up with my good hand and cupped her face. She smiled, and moved her head into the touch.

"Do you ever think about running away again?" I asked, after a moment.

Her head snapped up.

"From here?" she asked. "From Jack Dandy?"

"No," I said slowly. "Not from Jack Dandy specifically. Not from anything, specifically. Just, from everything."

"Do you?"

"I didn't used to," I confessed. "But lately, I've started to."

"Why?"

"Don't laugh," I said.

"I won't. I promise."

"Well… It's because of you. There are too many responsibilities to think of, here. I think… I'd like to run away with you, and just be selfish."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"That's such a beautiful thing to say."

"I don't know. Is it?"

"Yes! Let's do it!" she said, laughing. "Let's run away and just visit places without ever stopping! We'll be like gypsies, Lory—just you and me!"

"We can get a hot-air balloon," I suggested, laughing with her, "and go around the world in eighty days!"

"Oh, that'll take at least a year, with all the places I want to see. Like the Eiffel Tower."

"And the Taj Mahal."

"And the Great Wall of China!"

"And Athens."

"And Rome."

"And… ah… Brussels?" I suggested tentatively.

"Wherever!" Thistle said gleefully. "We'll see it all, and you won't have to have any responsibilities at all!"

"That would be wonderful," I sighed, "But where would we get the money?"

"We could hitchhike," she suggested. "And sleep under the stars at night. Or get work on… on a cruise ship! Wouldn't that be fun?"

"That might be nice."

"It would be nice. We could do it."

"We could. Hitchhike to the coast, and get a job on a ship. On a luxury liner."

"Do you want to?" she asked. "Really?"

"I would love to," I told her, sitting up, and putting my arms around her in a gesture that was almost protective. Because it felt, suddenly, as if the walls were closing in. As if it all really was too much, and I'd gotten myself in too deep, and just needed to fly away with her.

"Let's leave soon," Thistle murmured. "I wasn't going to say anything, but… But ever since Ambrose disappeared, I've felt weird living here. Like maybe he's standing outside looking in the windows at me. Or else his ghost is."

"Don't say that," I said quietly, soothingly, holding her tighter against me. "He wouldn't blame you. You couldn't have done anything." And it was true. She could not have interfered.

"I just hope," she said, "that he's somewhere warm and safe."

"I'm sure he is." And I was. He hadn't been a bad kid—just misguided.

"Hope so."

"We will leave," I told her. "We'll leave soon."

I meant it.

The next morning, around nine o'clock, I went out to get the paper, and found that Magdalena had beaten me to it—which was an oddity. She'd been acting so strange, lately.

"Oh, Lory," she said nervously. "What're you up to?"

"Getting the paper," I told her. "But it looks as if you've already gotten it."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "I checked, but it's not here, yet."

"Yeah?" I asked, gazing up at the mailbox. Something thrown in the ditch and partially covered with snow caught my eye. …The newspaper.

"Isn't that it, right there?" I asked.

"Isn't what what?" she asked, turning.

"In the ditch," I said, heading over to it. I picked up the edge, and pulled it out. It was slightly damp, but was in fact the day's paper. I showed it to her.

"It was right there," I said.

"Oh, how funny!" she laughed. "The paper boy must have missed the box. I didn't even see it." She laughed again.

I cocked my eyebrows at her.

"How strange," I said.

She smiled.

"I… I hope," she said, "that Jack isn't upset that it's all wet."

"I'll just tell him that I dropped it," I said, heading past her, and unsure just what it was that I was covering up for. And why.

Inside, I handed the paper to Jack. Strangely, Sidney was also present at the breakfast table, with a bowl of cereal in front of him. His eyes were closed, and his chin in his hand. The cereal had barely been touched.

"Rough night, Sidney?" I asked.

"Mmmhmm," was his reply.

"He's had a lot of those, lately," Jack said. "Is that the newspaper?"

"Yeah," I said, handing it to him. I smiled hello at Thistle—who was sitting on the floor among the other Newly Dead, also eating cereal—and then sat down in my usual spot. A moment later Magdalena came in and took her seat across from Jack, who was now voraciously scanning the paper.

"Jack," Sidney said, opening his eyes. "What the hell are you looking for?" And he was clearly looking for something.

"I'm looking no longer!" he said victoriously. "I've found it." He put his finger under a small section. I leaned over to look, but he began to read it aloud anyway.

"'An anonymous phone call was received last night at approximately seventeen minutes after eight o'clock, informing the Seraphim of a possible plot by the terrorist group The Hungry Ghosts to plant explosives in a local club, The Bich-Hong.'"

"Is there more?" I asked, trying to read it upside down.

"Yes, but it's all bullshit and quotes from terrified citizens," he said, and then stood. "But you all know what this means?" he asked, addressing both us and the Newly Dead.

"What?" Sidney asked.

"Why, isn't it obvious?" Jack asked innocently. "We've got a traitor in our midst."

"What?" I asked, echoing Sidney.

"How would anyone have known?" Jack asked. "If the call was made at eight o'clock? We hadn't even left the house at eight o'clock. No one could have seen us there, and then made the call. The Seraphim were already there. They were there before we were, weren't they, Kit? Lory?" He didn't wait for an affirmation to continue. "Therefore, the only explanation is that someone who knew about the plan beforehand made the phone call." He smiled beatifically, and paused to let this sink in with all of us before he continued. "And I know who it is."

And then he stood up and exited the room. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Magdalena shrink in her chair, but I kept my eyes on the doorway, waiting for his return. After a second he came back, hands held behind his back.

"I know," he repeated, a glint in his eye, "exactly who it is."

And then he pulled out his gun.