12: Who's afraid of the Big Bad wolf?

Hugh Sweeney was a maniac. He had roped me in with his absurdly easy interview, and put me off guard by hiring me immediately. Now, during my 'training,' I could only watch in a sort of abject terror as he whirled around behind the counter, mixing soft-serve and syrup and soda pop and scooping ice cream like a madman. I tried to follow along—even tried at first to write down directions—but before long he'd lost me completely. At last, he spun to a stop in his demonstration.

"Got it?" he asked peppily.

Dismayed, I could only shake my head slowly.

"Don't worry. It's mostly on-the-job training. You'll see."

And, throughout the rest of the day, I began to. Regardless, Hugh Sweeney was a maniac. He did everything with that dancing, barely-contained sort of glee—like his ice cream shop was a Broadway musical. Just without the music.

But, if he started to sing, I swore to myself that I'd find a new job.

By the end of the day I was worn out just from watching him capering about. Thistle wandered in from her job interview at six, just as the shop was closing, and the two of us beat a hasty retreat back to the car.

"I think that the interview went well," she told me on the way back.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. They were really nice to me. They said they'd get back to me in about a week."

"It's probably a bit harder to get a job when you're a runaway."

"Yeah," she sighed. "But better a runaway than a captive, right?"

"I agree. …I tried to run away from the home, once. But I didn't have anywhere to go."

"They caught you, then?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it. How far did you get? How did you get out?"

"I don't know. I didn't really plan it. I don't know where I meant to go. They were fumigating our dorms, so we were sleeping in the gym. The bathroom was in a different building, and there were night attendants on duty. You had to have one of them walk you across the green to the main building—"

"That's awful."

"You got used to it."

"What if you really had to go and the attendant wasn't there?"

"Then you just went alone. It wasn't a strict rule, really. They're Devas, and usually they can tell if you're up to something. Anyway, someone had been sick at that time, so she just told me to go by myself."

"She didn't know that you were going to run away?"

"I wasn't going to."

It had been a strange feeling. I'd been walking back across the green, and then there was the forest in front of me, bathed in moonlight. It was only a chain-link fence, and I'd realized that out there was the whole wide world. And I was missing it. It was going by.

I had just changed directions and, almost without thought, climbed the fence and started walking into the forest beyond. Most of the time I'd barely been able to see two feet in front of myself in the darkness. At some point in the night, I'd just lay down at the base of a tree and slept. In the morning, I decided that there was no point in stopping, or going back. I'd discovered that I wasn't far from the road going out of town, and so I resumed my walking along that.

One of the teachers from the home had found me later that afternoon.

"Alister Siderius!" she'd shouted out the car window. "Get in this car right now, before I call the Seraphim!"

I did, and she gave me a terrible tongue-lashing for it.

"What were you thinking? We've been looking for you all morning. Why did you do this, Alister? You were always such a good boy, when I had you in my class." It was Mrs. Dickinson. She's had me back when my hair was still growing in. "Your sister was worried sick!"

At this, I started to listen. I had completely neglected to think of Beatriz.

"So you just wandered off?" Thistle wondered.

"It was a selfish thing to do."

"A little bit," she said.

"How did you escape? From your home, I mean. From going to the home."

She was quiet for a minute, staring out the window.

"You don't have to tell me," I offered after a time.

"You'll be the first person I have told," she said. "Except Ambrose. I mean, obviously he knew anyway."

She paused again.

"Hey, Lory?" she finally asked. "Can we stop somewhere and just walk around for a bit? I don't want to go back just yet."

"I understand. There's a park near here."

We drove there in silence, and then sat in silence inside the parked car.

"I didn't bring any gloves," she said, finally.

"I didn't, either."

"Oh."

Outside, dusk was falling. The sky was darkening to a color that was almost purple. Thistle opened the car door, and turned so that her back was to me, and her legs outside. For a moment longer we sat like that, me waiting, and listening to the car dinging its warning that the door was open, losing heat. Then I pulled the key out, and got out of the car myself. I walked around to the other side and offered Thistle my hand to pull herself up. She accepted it, and then slammed the door shut.

I'd been to this park often enough in summer time. It had a nice playground, and we'd gone on fieldtrips there from the home. But in winter it was different. Completely different. In summer, when it was quiet, it was peaceful. In winter, it became the quiet of a battlefield after the survivors have gone home.

"We escaped," Thistle said, after walking a ways from the car, "because I hit the Seraphim over the head with a lamp and ran."

The statement seemed almost comic. It probably would have been funny to anyone who had never before encountered a Seraphim with a warrant for illegal offspring intervention. And I had. I had seen them drag my parents out of my own hospital room, locking me and Beatriz inside. I'd seen what they did.

"You don't have to tell me," I told Thistle.

"You asked me."

"I withdraw the question."

"It's all right. I'll tell you the story. It's… a little bit grizzly, for me. But I want for someone else to know. They say talking about things helps, right?"

"'They?'"

"Yes, 'they.'" And suddenly, we were holding hands. It felt strange—walking hand in hand through a snow covered park with this girl who I didn't really know very well.

"I'd tell you, anyway," she murmured.

"You don't—"

"Shush, Lory. It was all my stupid dad's fault, anyway," she said. I decided not to interrupt any more.

She was staring hard at the ground just ahead of us. "I could've been legal, you know. I almost was. But then he got fired from his job because of his drinking, and they found out, and wouldn't let my parents have the permit. I mean," she said, voice softening, "I know it's not his fault—the drinking thing. It's a disease, right? But I hate it." She looked up at me imploringly, perhaps seeking agreement. "I don't care what anyone says! Alcohol, and things like that—they're evil." She looked away again. "They went ahead and had me anyway, because they wanted another kid. Then Ambrose came along… Anyway, they found out about us because of my dad drinking, like I said.

"Ambrose had done something stupid. He lost his baseball mitt or some dumb thing like that, and dad had been drinking, and he freaked out. He ranted, and yelled at us about how worthless kids were, and how we didn't appreciate anything, and how he wished he'd never had us. And then he… then he called the Seraphim, and turned himself in. For having illegal children. He'd just get fined, right? But we'd be gone. It was horrible, Lory. Mom was crying, Ambrose was crying, and dad was yelling, and I didn't know what to do. But I knew that I had to get away, so I went upstairs and packed some things and meant to run, but before I could, the Seraphim got there. I panicked, and tried to get out the back, but Ambrose… he didn't want to be left behind. That's when I had to hit the man with the lamp. To escape, you see?"

"I do."

She shrugged, and sniffed, then laughed.

"And now I'm here," she said, extending one arm to indicate the general area.

"How did you find us?"

"It was Ambrose. I want you to know, he was a lot more for the cause, before… Well, before he had to kill anyone for it. A woman on the street mentioned it. Just some bag lady, ranting, I mean. Ambrose wanted revenge. He asked her where to go, and she told us."

"A bag lady? …Gemma? She told you where to find us? Thistle, I know her. She's a prophetess."

"She's a bag lady, Lory."

"She saw Mink's death."

"Mink?"

"Mink Longfellow. You didn't know him. He died early on."

We walked in silence for a moment. I tried to remember the last thing that Mink had said to me, but couldn't. He'd laughed at Gemma. That much I remembered.

"Wanting revenge isn't good enough," I said after a moment.

"What?"

"Ambrose. You said he wanted revenge. That's not enough. It's not right. Vengeance doesn't last long enough, or run deep enough. We don't want revenge—we want revolution."

"I think that it's equal parts revolution and revenge. They've done something to you, personally. Otherwise, you wouldn't want anything at all."

"No," I said, disentangling my hand from hers. "You're wrong. They haven't done anything more to me personally than they have with countless others. It's the repression that I can't stand. It's that they assume they're better, for being able to feel the Shekinah. Or for running perfectly. People aren't meant to run perfectly. You're supposed to get sick when you eat something disagreeable. You're supposed to sweat when you get nervous. You're supposed to get arthritis when you get old, and sunburn when you're out too long. It's what makes people people. They aren't people—they're organic machines."

"You're right."

"I know I'm right. It only bothers me that more Animals aren't aware of it. They're brainwashed to practically worship Devas. Even the name implies that you should worship them. It's disgusting."

"I agree. I don’t think that any one group of people should worship any other group. That's wrong."

"Of course it's wrong. We have to wake people up to that, Thistle. We have to make people understand how terrible it is to worship something that is itself so wrong."

"Let's not talk any more. I think, as sexy as you are when you're angry, that I'm sick of talking."

"Thank you. I think. And fine, we won't talk. Although I'd like to hear your reason for being here."

"They're playing God," she said simply. "All the time. It's practically how they live. I hated that, even before they caught me. But let's not talk about it."

She stopped, turned, and looked up at me. It had begun once again to snow. She stood on tiptoes and wrapped her arms around my neck. We kissed, and her lips were cold.

When we got home we were still alone—the house was unusually quiet. Or at least, I thought we were alone. In actuality, Sidney was sitting on the couch.

Most of him, anyway.

I sat down next to him, and Thistle in the chair to one side of the room. He didn't look at either of us, didn't even seem to have registered that we were there.

"Hey, Sidney," I said. He didn't look at me, still. "Haven't seen you in days," I continued.

After a moment, he grinned. It looked so much like his normal grin—on other days that would have suggested to me that he was all right. But today it only heightened my concern.

"No," he agreed. "You haven't seen me in days. Maybe weeks."

Thistle and I exchanged a look. I bit my lip.

"Where've you been?" I asked.

"You know." He wasn't quite looking at me. But his gaze was in no way unfocused. I found it unsettling—like maybe he could see my insides. Like maybe he'd found the Shekinah.

"I don’t know," I told him.

"Around," he said, with another enigmatic smile, and I noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

"Are you in for the night?"

"Sure."

"You could use a rest."

The smile never wavered.

"This is a rest, Lory. I'm resting. With my eyes open." He laughed. "You're all busy, busy, rush, rush, all the time. You all need to slow it down sometimes. Slow it down. You know?"

"I suppose," I said. "Have you eaten?"

"Eaten what?" he asked, laughing.

"Dinner."

He laughed again.

I gave up, stood up, and went to the kitchen. Thistle followed.

"What is he—"

"Amaladine. Like at the Black Bull, remember? It's a synthetic." I slammed my fists against the counter top, and stared out the window. Then I motioned her closer, until I could speak only to her.

"That's how he ended up here, you know. His family sold that stuff all over the place. They were none too careful about it, either, and they got caught. He was young enough that they didn't convict him, but old enough that they didn't put him in a home—just barely eighteen. He wasn't really involved anyway. He drifted for a while, after that, from what I gather. And then he came here. You'd think he'd know enough to keep away from the stuff."

"I would never make that assumption about anyone at all," she replied.

"I can hear you two whispering in there," Sidney yelled, and then laughed again. He appeared in the doorway after a moment. "Can I play?" he asked, sticking his lower lip out in a childish pout.

"If you're really bored, you can play 'Sidney's turn to wash the dishes,'" I suggested.

He laughed again, and walked off.

"It was worth a try," I said.

"Barely," he called back. There were footsteps on the stairs. He was gone.

I found a frozen pizza in the back of the freezer for myself and Thistle. It turned out a little bit soggy, but neither of us minded. Then we watched a movie on television. At around ten, she fell asleep on my shoulder. Instead of waking her up, I carried her upstairs, and left her on the bed that she shared with Gladiola, the other 17 year old girl of the Newly Dead. It was strange, but even with her eyelids closed over those blue eyes, she still reminded me of Beatriz. Despite their strong personalities, both struck me as somehow fragile—in need of protection. I kissed her once, lightly, before going back downstairs. I wasn't the least bit tired, and knew that I would be getting very little sleep that night because of it.

Jack, Magdalena, and the rest of the Newly Dead—including Ambrose—came in not long after.

"Ice-skating," Jack said a bit breathlessly. His cheeks were bright red, and he smelled like snow. "Sorry, you could've come, but we didn't know how long you'd be. Thought you got off work at five, but you didn't come home, did you?"

"It's fine," I told him.

"I didn't think you'd care."

"And I don't."

"I want you to do something for me tomorrow, Lory," he told me, sitting down on the couch next to me. The house was full of sound and light once again. This was how I preferred it.

"What's that, Jack?" I asked.

He grinned.

"Poke around the Reproduction Clinic a bit. See how many explosives you think it'll take."

"Sidney's better at that."

"So take him along."

"I have no guarantee that he'll be here. He hasn't been for the last few days."

Jack raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, he'll be here," he said. "I'll make sure of that." His eyes fairly glowed.

"All right," I said.

"So you'll go?"

"Of course I will." I don’t know why he even asked. He knew I'd go. It was Sidney he needed to worry about.

The Reproduction Clinic was a rather modest building. Adobe colored stucco with a blue tiled roof—it didn't look like a medical building.

There was a small park and playground across the street. I had parked there, and now Sidney and I sat in the car, staring at the building, and watching couples go in and out.

"What do you think?" I asked after a time.

"Hmm?" he asked, jerking as if I'd woken him up.

"What do you think?" I repeated, pointing at the building.

"Yeah…" he said, staring across the street at it. He reached up and massaged first his temples, and then the ridge of bone underneath his eyebrows.

"Yeah what?"

"Yeah, we can do it."

"I know that!" I snapped. "How?"

"They don't offer tours of the place, do they?"

"Sidney! On subject!"

"Damn it, Lory, I am on subject!" he said sharply, then winced. "My head hurts."

"I'm sure."

"Smug bastard," he muttered. "I want to go inside and tour it, so we can see the structure. It's hard to know what we'll do without seeing the inside." He sighed. "We've never done something like this, where we wanted the whole building gone. I don't know if I'll be able to figure that out."

"Then we'll just use more than you think we need."

He laughed.

"Sounds like a plan."

He turned his eyes back on the building.

"We could," he said slowly, "probably just put a bunch along the line where the roof meets the walls. I bet that would do it."

I imagined all of us outside the building, at night, on high ladders, planting explosives.

That would definitely not attract attention.

"I don't envision that happening," I told him.

"Yeah," he laughed, then winced again. "Guess not."

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"Fine. I will be, I mean—fine."

"Sidney… Please. Give it up."

"Give what up?"

"Amaladine. You've had me worried these past few days. You're always gone. You know how dangerous it—"

"I don't need you lecturing me," he snapped. "Don't tell me about dangerous."

I started to say something, but then stopped. And then started again: "What?"

"You're crazy."

"I'm crazy."

"Yes." He nodded, staring out the window at the clinic. "And I'm going to have to see inside of there. What say we just kind of breeze up and wander around inside until someone kicks us out?"

"I'm crazy," I repeated.

He laughed.

"Is it that bad of an idea? I need to see inside."

"Look, come back with Maggie, or a woman, or somebody so that it'll at least look a little bit legit—"

Suddenly, he gasped.

"Lory!" he cried, turning toward me, a look of brilliant mischief in his eyes. "Lory, Lory, Lory!" he said again. "I've just had the most genius idea!"

"What?" I asked, immediately suspicious.

"Well, think of it! Who else requires reproductive aide?"

"Sterile Animals."

"Who else?"

"…No, Sidney."

"C'mon," he coaxed, as if I was a recalcitrant puppy. "Say it."

"No."

"Yes!"

"Sidney, I will not pretend to be your lover."

"I knew you understood what I was driving at! Come on, Lory. You know that you're just repressing your feelings. You're mad about me."

"No. It's not happening."

"Look, we're here, we might as well do it now. And—here's the best part—if we do that, then we won't even have to make fake papers so that we look like Devas."

"What if they're suspicious, and remember us?"

"I'm a good actor. I was in all my high school's plays. I can do this—you just have to be quiet."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yes, Lory. We're here, and it'll be funny. We'll tell our grandchildren about it one day, and laugh."

"If we live that long. It's dangerous."

"Since when does that scare you? You like blowing things up."

"Fire is predictable. You know what fire is going to do. People aren't like that."

"Sure they are. Come on," he taunted. "Are you scared? Yellow?"

"That won't work."

"Fine. I guess we'll just have to go home, then. And tell Jack that we didn't do what he asked. He'll be disappointed. Maybe even angry."

"That'll work," I replied, getting out of the car and heading to the clinic.

"And you say people aren't predictable," he called after me, grinning.

The woman at the desk was the kind looking, grandmotherly type. Her graying hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and she smiled as we walked in, even with Sidney draped over me like a plastic-wrap toga.

"Hello," she said as we approached the desk. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, dear," Sidney lisped in a flagrantly over-done manner. "We were just curious—are there tours of some kind? I mean," he said, giving me an affectionate squeeze, "we've just been giving a lot of thought to—you know—having the little pitter-patter of feet around the house." He paused to titter, and clutch at me—but I noticed his eyes flicking around the room, at the walls, and windows, and support beams. The woman smiled in an understanding manner. "And we wanted to know a bit about the procedure," he continued. She started to say something, but he interrupted her. "And have a little look at the facilities, if that's all right. That's all right, isn't it?" So much for acting—he sounded distinctly nervous, to me. "Just have a little stroll around?" He mimed walking with two fingers on the reception counter.

"There aren't any doctors available to speak to at the moment," she said, rather like an answering machine. "You'll have to make an appointment to speak to one. You can walk the halls, and poke your heads into open rooms, but don't bother anyone with a closed door, and the labs aren't open to visitors—mostly for hygienic reasons. You can take a pamphlet to learn about the procedure." She picked up a basket and held it out to Sidney.

He dropped his hand down and squeezed mine, gave me an excited look, and took the little booklet with much enthusiasm.

"Thank you so much," he gushed, and then lead me off down one of the hallways, slipping a hand into my back pocket. I stiffened, surprised by this, and pulled away. He jerked me back against him roughly, calling back to the woman, "We'll just look around a bit, then!"

As soon as we were out of sight, he moved a platonic distance away from me, and a cold, calculating look appeared on his face.

"Way to not screw things up," he said, clapping me on the back.

This was the Sidney I was used to: quick-witted, sharp-tongued. Not the doped up wreck of the previous night. This was right, that wasn't.

He thumped a wall.

"They're thin," he commented. "They'll go easy. The doors look like they'll hold, though, which isn't huge. We'll open 'em all if we've got time. Anyway, if the walls blow like I think, it won't matter.

We heard footsteps. Sidney shut up immediately and grabbed my arm. We both smiled at the doctor who walked by. She smiled back—a rushed smile.

A bit further along was an open examination room, which Sidney poked around in, while I stood in the hall.

"Not a problem," he declared upon coming out. He grinned. "So come on, Lory," he lisped again. "Let's get outta here."

On the way out, we discovered that something strange had happened.

Well, not so strange, really. I'd done it myself. Just a strange, ironic time for it to be discovered.

"You're kidding," the woman at the front desk was saying to a man with an important look about him. "You're kidding," she repeated, her face screwing up in grief.

"No," the man said. "I wish I was kidding, Lois. They found the house late yesterday. What was left, anyway. They didn't release it, though, until just now—because his wife hadn't been informed. She was away, and that's the only reason she's alive. I mean, they—" He stopped, pressed his hand to his mouth. They hadn't noticed us, yet, skulking in the hallway. "They didn't even find bodies. The fire was that bad."

"So they might be alive? They might not have been in the house?"

"It's not likely. …Unless they were kidnapped."

She gasped.

"They suspect foul play?"

"Yes. They… They say it's too soon to be sure. But the fire started on the opposite end of the house from the kitchen."

"Electrical fire."

"They're not sure. But they think someone may have broken in, and then discovered they weren't alone. They could have been kidnapped, but… there's been no ransom note, or phone call… so it's… not likely, I'm afraid."

"How are we going to tell the staff?"

"They're… They're shutting us down for a few days. To question the staff. So get everyone down here, now. Reschedule appointments."

Sidney jabbed me in the ribs, and started walking into the reception area. I followed, caught up. He shoved his hand in my back pocket again, and again caught me by surprise. I jumped. He steered me toward the door.

"Thank you!" he called to the receptionist.

And then we hightailed it.

In the car, I laughed.

"Lory," Sidney said. "That's not funny."

"Why not? They won't catch me!"

"Why wouldn’t they? You let those two kids get away, Lory. They'll go to the Seraphim."

"If they're alive, and I doubt it. If they are alive, why haven't they gone to the authorities yet?"

He mulled this over for a second, and then nodded appreciatively.

"Good point, my friend!" he said, then laughed, then went straight faced again. "And Lory, they're shutting the clinic down to question people! …What a perfect time to blow it up, eh? Eh?"

"Perfect, Sidney!" I cried, and then joined him in laughing as we pulled away from the clinic. And then a thought occurred to me.

"Oh, and one more thing, Sidney."

"What's that?"

"If you ever touch my ass again, I'll break your arm."

"Oh. Ha…ha… Right, Lory."

"This is how it's gonna be," Jack said. He was excited. Sidney was excited. I was excited. The Newly Dead could feel it, too—it was like something palpably in the room with us.

But along with it came a tension. On one hand, it was our own tension, one that came with the excitement—the desire to be moving, doing something, making this a reality. But at the same time, there was an alien tension from the few among us who didn't want it done. Two only, actually: Magdalena and Ambrose. I was starting to get used to seeing Magdalena with her head down and her arms crossed over her chest.

"We'll sneak in tomorrow night," he said. "Thanks to Lory not once, but twice—he got both the information to let us in, and the necessary distraction to get in. So thanks, Lory."

The Newly Dead broke into applause. Thistle smiled at me.

"He doesn't need thanks," Sidney said, laughing. "He likes stabbing people and setting things on fire."

"Thank you, too, Sidney," Jack said.

"You're very welcome."

"So, basically, we'll sneak in and blow it up," Jack continued. "Kill anyone who happens to be inside."

"What if it's guarded?"—this from Thistle.

"It won't be."

"What if it is, though?"

He sighed irritably.

"We'll drive by first. If there're guards, we'll see where they're positioned, and figure it out from there."

"Are we going to be divided into groups, or all go as one?" she asked.

"Groups," Jack said quickly.

"Of what?"

"Uh… Three groups of five, with one extra."

"Five of three would be quicker, don't you think? And more mobile?"

"That may be true," he countered, "but we can get five or six into each car. That would make the escape quicker, should something happen. No one gets left behind."

Thistle nodded.

"All right!" Jack yelled. "Line up, count off. I lead one, Lory two, Sid three."

Jack ended up with Arthur, Triss, Kit and Thistle; me with Laurence, Fabian, Lucas and Ambrose; Sidney with Gladiola, Jethro, Faye, Magdalena, and Holiday.

"Ha!" he declared. "Once again, I get all the girls. It's sheer animal magnetism."

Jack ignored him.

"We'll give each group fifteen explosives. Three each, huh? To do whatever you want with, inside. It'll be like hiding easter eggs. Sid, you're on setting them all on one timer, right?"

"Right." He grinned.

Jack laughed. "Perfect. Happy-birthday."

Magdalena's head snapped up. Jack caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to smile at her.

"Problem, Maggie?" he asked in a honeyed tone.

She blanched, and shook her head.

"I thought not," he said, eyes narrowing. "Now," he said. "You'll all be assembled here tomorrow night at 9:30, in your groups. Get to the bathroom first, and get whatever you'll need." He smiled smoothly. "Dress for the occasion. This'll be a first for some of you, I know. You'll have fun. Be down here at 9:30."

"N-no."

It was a small voice among the crowd. At first I was shocked, for I thought that Fabian had spoken. But, as I turned to look, I saw that it was Ambrose who had objected.

"'Scuse me," Jack said, cupping a hand over his ear. "What was that?"

"I said no!" Ambrose said again—with a curious strength in his voice. Like Thistle got on occasion. Why should it surprise me so that it was a family trait?

"You don't say no," Jack replied, in a tone that brooked no argument. But, surprisingly, Ambrose argued.

"No!" he said. "I won't! I can't! You can't ask me to kill babies! You people are all… are all soul-less! I can't handle it any more!"

He pushed through the Newly Dead and, before anyone could move, had bolted toward the front door. It slammed behind him. Thistle started to move.

"No," Jack barked. "Lory, go."

I moved out the room without a word, thankful that my shoes were already on. I grabbed my coat and was out the door.

"Don't hurt him!" I heard Thistle shout, and then the door closed behind me.

Silence, as I shrugged my coat on, but then, in the forest to the north, the crunching sound of feet through hard snow became apparent.

In an instant I was moving in that direction. Vaguely, I noticed that it was a cloudless night—moon, stars, beautiful, and cold, and distant. And then I was in the forest, with the porch light behind me, and the light of the moon dim and sickly silver through the tree branches. My own feet were loud on the snow, and the boy must have known he was being chased—but already I'd found the floundering trail he'd made through the snow, and was following.

He was quick, though. I'd been perhaps a minute behind him, and already he was out of sight—not that I could see far in the dark of the trees. And it was getting darker as the trees thickened and the house lights faded into memory.

Ambrose's path took a sharp turn east, toward the road, and I lost my balance making the ninety-degree turn. Unlike the last time I fell in the snow, however, I was up in an instant, and in pursuit again. Branches whipped me in the face, but I plunged after Ambrose, heedless. He could not escape.

Blood pounded sweetly through my body, and my chest and throat were filled with stinging, sharp, cold air. I wondered if this was how wolves felt, pursuing their prey. And then, suddenly, there was a clearing up ahead, and light, and Ambrose was in sight.

I pushed myself a little harder. Closer, and closer, and suddenly he made the mistake of looking back at me. His eyes were huge, and round with fear, and he stumbled, and I was on top of him in an instant.

I knocked him to the ground, and straddled his stomach, with my knees digging into the snow.

"Don't hurt me!" he shrieked, echoing his sister's sentiment. "I won't tell anyone about you! I'll go somewhere far away, and pretend to have amnesia, and I won't tell a soul, I swear! I just can't be a part of the killing!"

"I have to kill you. You live with us, you die with us. Or by us."

"It doesn't have to be that way, don't you see?" he asked, panic in his eyes. "You're only perpetuating violence."

"Oh, but I want to kill you, you little Deva-loving worm."

"What will my sister think of you," he pleaded, "If you kill me? She won't forgive you!"

My hands were already around his throat, tightening.

"Have mercy, please!" he gasped.

I laughed. It was a cold sound, and it fit easily into the winter air.

For a few moments—how long exactly I could not say—his eyes were locked with mine. His hands flailed desperately. He writhed under me. When, after a time, my hold did not slacken, his eyes fluttered and rolled back in his head. I held his throat until I was sure that his chest no longer rose and fell, and then let go. I fell off of him and back, laughing up at the moon. The night was beautiful. Too bad, I thought deliriously, he was missing it. But then I realized that he, too, was laying on his back staring up at the sky. Except, he wasn't seeing it. Because he was dead, and I'd killed him.

This snapped me back to reality. I sat up, stood up, brushed the snow off of myself. My knees were wet, and most of my legs underneath them. My shoes were soaked. And I'd have to do something with the body.

I picked it up and threw it over my shoulder. I shuddered—still warm—and started walking back along our previous path, trying to think what to do. …There was a stream nearby, I remembered. It ran around behind the barn and then north. I made my way back until I could just see the house, and walked inside the line of the forest until I was behind the barn. Without much difficulty I found the stream—frozen—and followed it north, far enough that I couldn't see the house anymore, and farther, and then dropped the body. No one came up here. No one would find it. I rolled his body onto the stream, but the ice was already too thick for it to break under that weight. It was too cold for November! Left with little choice, I followed him onto the ice. I heard it crack, and started to move back to shore, but I wasn't quick enough. Ambrose and I both fell through the ice. My feet hit the stream bed, and I was hip-deep in freezing water. I grabbed Ambrose's shoulders and pushed him underwater, and then guided him under the unbroken ice. I found that I had lost the ability to move my fingers once this was accomplished, and could barely feel my legs at all. I crawled out of the stream, and rushed back to the house.

Jack was standing on the porch. He just looked at me.

"Dead," I said.

"Good." He looked me over. "Let's get you inside. Jeez, your coat. I'll get you a new one. Shoes, too."

"Th-thank you," I stuttered, cold settling in.

Thistle was standing in the hallway. Everyone else seemed to have scattered. Or been sent to bed.

"Lory," she gasped, cheeks tear-stained. "Where—"

"I lost him," I said simply, shrugging out of the coat, and peeling my shoes and socks off.

"Pity," Jack said. "But we'll probably lose you, too, if you don't get out of those wet clothes." He winked at Thistle, slapped me on the back, and went into the kitchen. I headed upstairs. Thistle followed me, even into my bedroom.

"Get me a towel, please," I told her. She obediently scurried off to the bathroom.

"What happened?" she asked upon returning, handing the towel to me. When she realized that I was going to take my pants off whether she was in the room or not, her eyes widened, and she turned around. My skin tingled as warm air hit me. Readjusting to the inside temperature was almost more painful than being in the stream had been.

"He turned north-west, and headed across the stream," the lie came easily. "He was light enough to get across the ice, but I broke through. I lost him in the time it took me to get out."

"Oh, Lory!" she said, turning around with tears in her eyes, apparently no longer caring that I was wearing only a towel. She took a step toward me, and the tears spilled out, down her cheeks. Then, suddenly, she flung herself against me, sobbing.

"He'll die, won't he, Lory? Won't he? He didn't even have a jacket—oh, God! I never meant for this to happen! I should have let them take him to the home."

My first thought was how warm she was, against my skin, which was just truly beginning to unthaw.

"He could have been so happy there! If only I'd known how much he'd hate this—I thought he would be happy! I thought he understood."

She was soft. Warm, and soft.

"Now he's probably freezing to death, Lory! And I'm just standing here!"

She looked up at me, bright blue eyes luminous with tears.

"Point me in the direction he went. I have to bring him back, before he dies."

She started to move, but some time when she'd been talking, I'd snaked one arm around her. I hadn't really noticed doing it, myself, until she tried to move.

"Lory, let me go!"

"…No."

"Lory…" she looked up at me, genuinely scared, now. "Let go." Her voice shook. I put my free hand on the back of her head and kissed her. And she tasted salty, like tears. She struggled against me for a second, and then relaxed, or gave up, or something. After a time, I let her go. She stared up at me, not quite frightened, now. Just unsure.

"You're pretty when you cry," I said.

She pushed against me again.

"Lory, I like you, too. But not now. Not while—"

"Yes," I said, pushing her down, onto the bed. "Now."

"Lory, no. Stop. My brother—"

"Is a traitor."

"But he's still my brother! I can't do this, I have to help him."

"You're saying you want to help a traitor."

"No! I mean, yes, but… he's my brother," she said desperately.

"But still a traitor. What do you want Jack to think? That you're a traitor, too?"

"Will… Will he?"

"Without a doubt."

"Oh, god," she said, her conflicting desires evident on her face. "What should I do?"

"Stay here. Stay with me."

"But… Lory, you have to understand. You have siblings, don't you? What would you do, if your sister was running around in the woods, at night, in winter? You'd go after her, wouldn't you?"

"Not if she had been disloyal to the group, like this. Not if there was a chance that she would betray us."

"But… he'll die!"

"So will you, if Jack finds out that you've gone after him," and now I was making it up as I went along, because she was taking far too long to decide, and I didn't want to wait. "Even if you do find him—and you can't possibly, it's been too long, and he's gone too far—if you brought him back, you would both die. If you didn't bring him back, Jack would probably kill you anyway."

"He would kill… me?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"For helping an enemy."

"But he's my brother."

"Not any more. He's just an enemy, now. A Deva-lover."

"Maybe…" She bit her lip. "Maybe you're right…"

"Of course I'm right. He betrayed you, too, Thistle, by leaving. Think of that."

"Betrayed… me?"

"He did. You know he did. He betrayed all of us, but you most of all, because, after all, you were his sister. It's like Caesar and Brutus—he double-crossed all of us, but his betrayal of you was the worst."

She chewed on her lip and looked at the floor. "I hadn't thought of it that way," she said, after a moment. "He did betray me."

"And is it worth getting killed for a cause that you believe in, for a brother who would do that to you? After all that you've done for him?"

"I don't know…"

"I wouldn't save my sister. Not if she'd gone that far."

"Really?" She pulled her legs up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. She looked at me almost as if she was afraid of me.

"Really," I replied. "I don't take kindly to treachery. Neither does Jack."

"Jack would kill me?—if I went to help Ambrose, anyway?"

"Yes."

"You're kidding."

"Why would I be kidding? Do you think he wants traitors in the group?"

"I'm not a traitor," she said.

"So prove it. Prove it by staying here."

After a moment of hesitation, she nodded.

"This is…" she started to say as I fell on her, undoing her pants.

"Is what?" I pushed her shirt up, ran my hands over her stomach.

"Is… ah… sick."

"Why?" her pants were off, now. She'd helped, kicking them most of the way.

"Because, my little brother is out there, freezing."

"He's not your little brother any more. He's only a traitor."

"Your hands are cold," she mumbled. "But I'm not a traitor, like him."

"Thistle, I want you."

She made a face.

"Could you be more romantic about it, at least?"

"I want you now."

"I'd always envisioned it more like in the movies," she said. "Low lights. Candles. Music." She took her shirt off, nevertheless. "But I'm not a traitor, like my brother."

I smiled.

"No, you're not." And then I kissed her.

Later, when she was asleep beside me, the window panes began to rattle with wind, and not long after it began to snow hard, and I thought, if Ambrose hadn't made it somewhere warm, he would definitely freeze to death in this.

And then, I remembered that he was already dead.

It amazed me, how easily the lie had come to me, and stuck there.

Thistle, too. Perhaps Sidney was right. Maybe people weren't so unpredictable, after all.