3: Like Fire

There was no Yule in the Hungry House that year. It had never been much of an auspicious holiday for us—who had the money to buy presents? But at least before… there'd been something. Jack didn't even come out of his room, except to use the bathroom, which I only actually saw him do once. His face was streaked with tears, and he acted as though he didn't even see me. Maybe he didn't. I took dinner to him, but he didn't answer when I knocked on his door. There was no sound of any sort inside the room, and so I sat the plate down outside.

He hadn't come out the day before, either, after discovering that Magdalena was gone. I had gone back to bed after she left. I feigned cluelessness when I woke up again—pretended not to know why he was yelling at the Newly Dead when I came downstairs. I pretended sympathy for him when he told me, pretended so many things.

And now I was starting to worry.

As it was, Yule didn't feel very special, to start with. I sat downstairs with the Newly Dead, watching specials on television—happy things, made-for-TV, feel-good stories. And on the news stations there was more coverage of the homeless children, who'd had to go to foster families for their holidays.

Oh, the poor things, I thought. They had to spend the holidays with real families? Instead of in their dilapidated dormitories? What an awful person I was, for forcing that upon them.

Still, although we did nothing special to celebrate the day, it carried something with it—some sparkle in the air. There was a feeling of anticipation in all of us. Something was going to happen. Good or bad, I wasn't sure. But it was in the air.

It was late afternoon when Sidney's bedroom door caught my eye. It was partially open, for one thing—and I couldn't think who would have done that, or why.

I stepped inside hesitantly. I hadn't been in there since… Since he'd been alive. But something drew me in, now. Whatever magic was in the air, it seemed, was centering there. Or else, maybe, coming from there.

Things were as he had left them—dirty clothes on the end of the bed, socks on the floor, and mechanical parts pushed against the wall. I moved to the window, and made a line in the dust on the sill with my index finger. Then I looked outside, onto a world of white—the snow covered barn, and trees. Had he stood here, I wondered, before we'd left that morning? Had he stood here and known that he was going to die?

And suddenly I remembered something he'd said, right at the end—something about the second drawer down from the left. What was in there?

Hesitantly I approached his chest of drawers, half fearing what I might find there. …Second down on the left. I put my fingers over the handle, and gingerly pulled the drawer open.

Inside lay several syringes and a bottle of something silvery that made me think of mercury, but smelled so sweet. …So strong. I picked the bottle up and held it to the light, and the silver exploded into pinks and blues. As I went to set it back down, I noticed that something had been under it—a much-folded piece of paper.

I took it out and unfolded it. At the top a name and number were scribbled—Vanessa –7094. Under that was a mess of writing that didn't seem to correlate much to the lines on the paper. It meandered up and down, and many things had been violently scribbled out. I debated momentarily on whether to read it or not… It looked private. But he'd told me to look in this drawer, hadn't he?

"I don't want to die," it began, and my throat closed up. I had to put it down for a moment—and then almost couldn't start it again. The only thing that drove me on was that he'd meant it to be found. He'd told me to get it. And so I picked it up and started again.

I don't want to die. But I don't appear to have a choice in the matter (no one does, unless you kill yourself first). It's like she said to me, 'you've got brain cancer!' and I'm seeing things in different ways now DIFFERENT COLORS. But is it because I know that I'm dying and I'm looking differently or because the cancer is eating away at some vital center of my brain and the information isn't getting through? I'm not running she told me that's Lory's job. I leave him to it. Jack I don't know about. I don't know, just that I'm going to die. Or be killed. She'll let me know; she always has before, right?

What she told me… I CAN'T REMEMBER It ALL. She told me at—everything is—a bad time. A bad-time-running-out-of-time time, but that's the whole world itself, isn't it? Why does it matter what we do, when someday our sun, our star, will expand and burn this whole rock to cinders, to a husk of a husk, and we might as well never have existed in the first place? How could he do that? It's like eating your own young, and everyone knows that males only do that when the children are someone else's.

Maybe he's punishing her. Eating her, too.

Electricity, she told me. It's a key—that's the cosmic joke, isn't it?! Benjamin Franklin found electricity with a key. Camelot was founded on a sword. That's no way to start a peaceful nation. But then, every facet of man's civilization is tainted with evil. Before Buddha sat under a tree. Before Babylon fell. It's been since one hairy primate saw that his cousin had something he didn't, and made violence out if it. TIME IMMEMORIAL! What's the point of trying to change it? It can't be changed. To change that is to change human nature. To make something that's not human AND THAT'S WHAT HE DID!

It TOOK ELECTRICITY AND THE DESIRE TO ERASE EVIL thereby erasing man, but EVERY FACET OF human existence is laced with evil, EVEN THE DESIRE TO ERASE EVIL CAN'T THEY SEE THAT? They're being selfish, too!!

It took electricity and a selfish desire and that's all. I'm going to die because of it.

I don't want to die!

She told me the truth. But that's nothing special. Everyone will know the truth, in the end.

I stared down at the piece of paper—at my shaking hand. I dropped it, and it floated softly back to rest on the drawer. Then in one motion I picked up the bottle of amaladine, and threw it against the wall. It smashed, and the whole room suddenly smelled powerfully—sickeningly—of its sweetness. It was the smell of rotting flowers left too long in a mausoleum, dirt streaked marble, flesh peeling away from fingers and arms and cheeks, and a body cut nearly in half by a sword of justice and light and love. It was the smell of his blood and gasoline on the parking garage floor.

I ran out of his room, and into the bathroom next door, and threw the window open and hung my head out, gasping fresh air, sickened even by the vaguely chemical, sweet, soapy smell of the bathroom.

Everything tainted…

We'd all know the truth, in the end.

…Whenever that was.

Jack emerged two days after Yule, and he emerged reborn. There was a glint in his eyes—mad though it was—that had never really been there before, and although the holiday had passed, we all became excited anew. This would be something big. There was no doubt about it. Jack had come out of his chrysalis a butterfly with blood red wings and eyes of flame.

We were in the living room when he appeared on the upstairs landing, but before he'd spoken a word we all knew that he was different, now. Before he had been our leader. Our director. Now he was our ruler, master, God.

"We have been dreaming," he said, raising his hands—a shepherd to his flock. "All this time—all these years, these wasted years—we have been dreaming. We wanted a world restored to its natural state—a world population only by humans shaped by the hand of nature. We desired a return to the true order of things, away from the false peace and love brought to our civilization by those artificial beings. There can be no such thing as perfect love. There, too, has to be hate in the world. Before creation can begin, destruction must occur, after all, because there is no starting anew. The rubble of the old must first be cleared away. There is no beginning and no end. Perhaps some time in the far past man was wholly good on his own, but somewhere, sometime—by the hand of God, or through a series of natural events—man fell. And now, good cannot exist without being accompanied by evil—the world is unbalanced, if this is so, and so the world is unbalanced now. It must be restored. At any cost.

"However… We have been dreaming, all along, if we believed that we could do this—accomplish this great thing, set the world back on its axis—through petty acts of violence. A bus stop here, a library there… What does it matter? Even in the Reproduction Clinic we were wrong, because although life is created there, that is not the source of it.

"No… The true source of their power, their belief in love unyielding, is their connection with all other beings. Their Shekinah. And if we want, truly, to shake the Devas to their very core, then it is this we must destroy. For the future of the world, we must destroy their connection with the Shekinah. And we start… We start by destroying the Temple!"

A few of the Newly Dead began to clap, but I interrupted before they could get into it.

"But Jack," I asked feverishly, feeling the words flow out of my mouth as if they were scripted, memorized, and rehearsed. "What about other Temples, other places? And Reproduction Clinics? We planned to destroy the one a few hours away, but we never have! How can we accomplish anything in just this little area? We're so small, Jack," I added desperately. "So small…"

"Ah, Lory, Lory," he said, smiling serenely. "I've been thinking about that, too, these past few days. And I realized, we can't be alone in our beliefs. There are others like us, somewhere. Maybe everywhere. We'll develop a plan. Some of us—maybe all of us—will leave here. Spread out. All across the country. We'll find others like us. And then, we'll regain the world."

With that, the Newly Dead truly broke into applause, wild applause, that degenerated somehow into a tickle fight. Jack disappeared into the upstairs hallway again. I wandered away from it all, into the kitchen, and turned the radio on. Classical music issued forth—but it was hard to hear it over the screaming laughter of the Newly Dead.

It was only a minute or so before Jack came up behind me.

"But the question is," he said, "Will you go, or shall I, when the time comes for leaving?"

"It doesn't matter," I muttered. I turned around to face him. "There's nothing for me here."

"There's nothing for me, any longer, either." He pulled out a chair and sat down, putting his head in his hands. "Three years… How—" He stopped, breathed deeply. "Maybe in the course of a life, that's not really very long at all."

"At least she's still alive," I muttered rather mutinously.

"Not to me, she isn't," he said, the meaning of that statement apparently flying right over his head.

"You could find her, if you really wanted to. Bring her back."

"…No. You were right, all along. You always knew, didn't you?"

"Don't be stupid, Jack," I said, turning back to the window. "You always knew, too."

Behind me, he laughed lowly.

"So we're all that's left, Lory. Who's going to leave?"

"I'll do what you want me to do," I said.

He made no reply for a moment. In the living room, the Newly Dead were quieting down.

"After all this, you'll still do what I tell you to," he said.

"Yes," I replied.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"How can I be sure?" he asked, and I heard the chair being pushed back. "How can I be sure that you won't leave, too?"

"Why would I?" I asked, turning to face him.

"I… I was never anything but good to Magdalena," he said, looking away from me, and I wondered if he believed what he was saying. "But you," he continued, "I've been awful to you—more than once. Why wouldn't you leave, too? You'd certainly have more justification to."

"Because," I said. "I'm not Magdalena. I'm not here for you. I'm here for a cause."

He turned away again.

"I was thinking, Lory… This plan, this idea of mine. It's all or nothing. We don't have much left in the way of explosives. We'll have to use them all. And if we, for some reason, fail… This could be it. We'd probably all have to leave."

"Why would that bother me?"

"What about your sister?"

"My sister… She has Edward. A new baby. …I could talk to her on the phone. It's not as though I'd never see her again, right?"

"There's always the chance that one of us will die."

"There's always been that chance, Jack. I'm not going to follow Magdalena."

"Or Sidney?"

"Or Sidney." Or even Thistle, I hoped.

"Then it will be soon, Lory. We'll destroy the Temple soon. I can't… I can't be sure that the real revolution will be soon. There's always that chance. I don't know anymore. …But I promise, promise, that it will be within my lifetime. I just don't know when, within my lifetime. Don't tell the Newly Dead. They need stronger leadership than that."

"I won't."

He laughed.

"Sure. Anything I say, right?"

I looked at him for a moment, and wondered if he meant something offensive by that—if he was deriding me.

"Anything," I said, despite this.

He grinned.

"That's good," he said. "Good to know."

"I have to go, Jack," I said. "To work." I turned to leave.

"Go, then, Lory. We'll talk about the Temple when you get back. I'll think about it. I'll come up with something. I know it."

I smiled without turning around. That was his old, peculiar brand of magic returning—the fact that he had no idea what he was doing, but he was going to do it anyway. It made me feel safe, and for a second I wondered—really wondered—is it the cause or the man? But I shrugged it off.

"Good, Jack," I said, walking away. "I can't wait to hear it."

"You're gonna have to," he said, and I turned back to look at him. He was still grinning. "Wait, that is. They're tapping phone lines, now—remember?"

I smiled.

"We're hunted," I said.

"But we're not running," he replied.

"Not yet," I said, turning to leave again.

"Not ever," he called after me.

But I knew better—at least for myself. I'd been told that I was always running.

"It's awful." It was one of the women sitting at the counter. There were two of them, older Animal women. They looked like school teachers—the kind of teacher I'd always despised in my youth, with ABC stationary, penny loafers, and a predilection for picking favorites.

"All those poor kids… Did you see on television? Those pictures of the poor dears standing outside while their home burnt to the ground?"

Ah, and now she'd caught my attention. There were a few other patrons scattered about, but it wasn't busy and I wasn't doing anything important, and so I took the opportunity to listen.

"I saw," the other woman clucked. "And I agree completely. Those poor things. Only children. And right at Yule, too. It's absolutely a deplorable thing to do!"

Deplorable. I should have expected her to say something like that, but still—something about it shocked me. People were supposed to appreciate this. They were supposed to understand that we were doing it for them. Why didn't they?

"And after those people blew up the Reproduction Clinic, too."

"They think it's the same group; hadn't you heard?"

"Really! So they're attacking Animals, too, now?"

My heart jumped. Is that what they thought, honestly? How could these women be so… so stupid? So blind?

"They're a desperate, despicable bunch. After killing a bunch of unborn babies, why on earth would they stop at anything? It's sick."

"Those poor, poor children. I mean, most of them are bad enough off, what with the immoral parents they were born to, but then to have their rescue shelter destroyed—"

"That's not true," I blurted angrily, before I could restrain myself. Immoral? What right did she have? What right?

Both women looked up at me. So, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, did a few of the other customers.

"Excuse me, young man," one of the women said, "Are you talking to us?"

"Yes," I said. "I am."

"And what, exactly, is 'not true?'"

"None of it!" I cried. "Immoral parents… Rescue shelter… Tell me, had you ever been to the home? Had you ever seen inside of it?"

"No, but I—"

"But nothing! How can you talk like it's some great tragedy when you know nothing about it? I spent nine years there. Nine years. And let me tell you, it was hell. They did those kids a favor, burning it down."

The woman who had spoken stood up angrily.

"A favor? They could have killed every single person inside!"

"But they didn't! They didn't blow it up, like they've done everything else! They set it on fire. Do you think, maybe, that that could have been intentional?"

She exchanged an open-mouthed look of shock with her friend.

"I hardly think, young man, that it is your place to interrupt our conversation—"

"Don't tell me about my place," I growled. "All my life… people have tried to hold me down, to keep me in 'my place.' I'm sick of it! You people, everyone, all of you, should be glad about what the Hungry Ghosts are doing! They're doing it for you. You have rights—natural rights—that are trampled by the mere existence of Devas, and you don't even seem to care! You—"

"Alister! What's going on out here?" It was Hugh Sweeney—he'd come out of his office. I whirled to face him, and he stepped backwards in surprise.

"Are you the manager, here?" the woman demanded.

"Yes, I'm… I'm the owner," Hugh stuttered.

"Well," the woman said, gathering her things to leave. Her friend did the same. "I think you should know, I don't appreciate your employee bombasting me with his disgusting opinions—"

"Oh!" I nearly yelled, angry beyond reason, moving up the counter toward her, "So now I can't have opinions, is that it? Of course, how stupid of me—illegal children shouldn't think. Hell, we shouldn't even exist, because our parents were too immoral to get a piece of paper enabling them to have children! Whatever happened to free speech, lady? You want to get rid of that, too?"

"The only thing I want to get rid of," she growled at me, "is jerks like you!"

She spun on her heel and headed to the door.

"Er… Your ice cream is on the house!" Hugh called after her.

"I wouldn't have paid for it anyway!" she called without turning. She and her friend disappeared out the door and around the corner.

"A-Alister…" Hugh stammered, and I spun to face him once again.

"What?" I demanded, advancing toward him. "Are you going to fire me, now? For having an opinion?"

"N-n-no! Nothing like that! Just, please, calm down! Please don't yell at the customers in the future. Ice-cream stores are s-supposed to be happy! C-customers don't like to be yelled at."

"Oh," I said, taking a step back, away from him. I pressed my lips together and took a deep breath. "All right, then."

"You… You lied to me, when I hired you," he said.

"Lied?" I asked, eyes narrowing again.

"Yes," he squeaked. "You said… You told me you were legal."

"So what?" I growled. "That's discrimination. So what if my parents didn't get a permit? Was that my fault? Are you going to penalize me for that?"

"N-no! Just, please. Don't yell at the customers."

"I won't," I said.

"Th-thank you. I'll be in the office, if… if anything happens."

"Right."

Nothing else happened that day, or the next. Or the next. It was on the third day, in the middle of a particularly long, slow afternoon—one without a lunch, I might add—that something out of the ordinary happened.

Namely, the Seraphim showed up.

There were only two of the, but the way they came in and looked the place over before sitting down at the counter made my blood run cold. Seraphim had come in before, but they'd always known what they wanted before they even got inside, and practically shouted their orders from the door. They were rushed. But these two seemed in no hurry at all. In fact, they made every effort to engage me in conversation.

"What can I get for you today?" I asked quite civilly, when they finally sat down at the counter.

"Give us a minute," the older of the two said, gazing up at the chalk-board menu behind me. I waited expectantly, hoping against hope that these two just had a little time off—a break maybe. I tried to convince myself that nothing was going on, tried to stay calm, so that they wouldn't feel my nervousness and know that something was up. A thought came to me unbidden—how long had it been since I'd seen Gemma? And what did that mean?

After a time, the Seraphim who seemed to be in charge looked away from the menu, right at me.

"This is a nice place. Are you the owner?"

"I'm not. He left for the day."

"Oh, yeah? It's funny, kid, but I can't help but feel as though I've met you before. …He looks familiar, doesn't he, Teddy?" he asked the second man, who grinned.

"Sure does. You don't forget hair like that."

"It's more the eyes I remember," said the first man. "That look. Kinda… shifty."

"Sure is, Clark."

Suddenly, Clark snapped his fingers as though remembering something in a manner entirely contrived that I would have laughed aloud—had I not been so scared stiff, of course, and still trying not to be.

"I know why I recognize you," he said. "You're the ice-cream truck kid who assaulted me a few summers ago!" He turned back to his partner and elbowed him laughingly. "You don't forget the face of someone who's had their hands around your throat, do you, Teddy?"

"Sure don't, Clark."

Clark turned back to me, smiling amicably, and I realized that I did recognize that smile.

"So now you're working here, huh? What's that like? Is it easier to keep your temper when you can't just drive away?"

I narrowed my eyes at him.

"May I take your order or not?"

"Just a second, just a second… I'm interested in you, now. So tell me—after you got out of jail what'd you do? Get a job here? Been working here since then?"

"When you're ready to order," I said, turning and starting to wipe down a counter that was already clean, "please let me know."

"How about a girlfriend?" he asked. "Have you got a girlfriend? A boyfriend? A dog? How about hobbies? Have you got any of those? What do you think, Teddy? He looks like he could be a tennis player, to me."

"With maybe a little bird watching on the side."

"Definitely. Hey, I think I'd like to order, now."

I turned around, and met his eyes levelly. I was not going to let him intimidate me.

"I think," he said, "That I'm in the mood for something kind of spicy. Hot, you know, Teddy," he said, turning to the other man. "Hot. Like… fire. Like a burning building."

My heart skipped a beat. They showed no sign of having felt it via the Shekinah, but they had to have. Had to. I took a deep breath.

"If you're looking for something hot," I said, "May I suggest that an ice cream parlor may be the wrong place to be looking?"

He laughed and stood up. His partner did the same.

"Oh, no," Clark said, moving to the door. "I think an ice-cream parlor is the perfect place to be looking. Good afternoon, Siderius. I hope business picks up."

As soon as they were gone, I put my head in my hands and took deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. I was so panicked as to be on the verge of tears. What could I do? I couldn't call Jack. The phones would be bugged.

It was Edward. I was sure that it was Edward. He wanted me, especially now, away from Beatriz and Ann-Marie. He always had. And now I knew one of his dirty little secrets. What better way to keep my mouth shut than to have me locked up?

Could I risk going home? Would they be following me? After all, as of now, I was the only member of the Hungry Ghosts that Edward knew about. That would have to be, in the end, my one consolation—at least they'd only get me. The cause would live on.

Even if I did not.

I went back to the Hungry House that night. What other choice did I have? My options were dwindling before my very eyes—had already been whittled down to roughly two: Go back to Jack's house, or surrender myself to the police. Or just commit suicide. But really, my instinct toward self-preservation has always been too strong for something like that.

So I went home, and—scared of what Jack would do if he knew what I had inadvertently caused—told no one of the events of the day. And, over the next few days, things remained quiet. I skipped a day of work out of sheer panic, but when I returned things were normal. Hugh acted as if the incident with the two women had never happened, and seemed to know nothing of the Seraphim's appearance several days ago. They didn't come back. Furthermore, I saw no patrol cars around. No officers.

By New Year's Eve, I'd let my guard down enough that Jack was able to persuade me to go out with him in celebration.

"Arthur," he said. "You come, too. We need to talk."

And so we all climbed into his car, and it felt eerily similar to a situation not too long before—one that had ended with me stopping a sword with my bare hand. I had a scar there, by this time. I still do, and probably always will. It's unsurprising to imagine that a magical sword would leave a deeper, more indelible mark than plain steel.

But this situation, I reassured myself, was different. We were out for fun, and on the Animal side of town at that. We had no explosives—could spare no explosives. There was no reason why it should go wrong.

Of course, having no reason to go wrong is never reason enough.

It was nearing midnight, and the new year, when it happened. Jack and Arthur were leaned over our table playing dice with another man and a woman. I stood behind Arthur, watching, prickles of anxiety running down my spine. It was like at Christmas—that feeling that something was happening, moving forward like a charging bull. Unstoppable. Inevitable.

Smoke hung on the air, and the smell of sweat, and people. Animals. There were no Devas here—of that I was sure. I turned away from the table to look out over the crowd, and that was when I saw her—scared, wide-eyed, trying to push her way through the throngs of people and failing.

"Beatriz?" I said softly, to myself, as if someone would answer. Could it be her? What was she doing here? Why wasn't she at home?

"Beatriz!" I called, hoping against hope that she'd hear me, find me. I pushed myself away from the table and through the crowd toward her.

"Hey, Lory—" Jack called, but I pretended not to hear and continued to push my way through the crowd.

"Beatriz!" I called again. She looked up, caught my eye.

"Alister!" she yelled back, and I pushed my way through to her. She grabbed a hold of my jacket, and I grabbed her by the shoulders.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I had to find you!" she said, looking up at me sadly.

"Find me?" I asked. "How did you know I was here?"

"You didn't answer your cell phone, so I called the house, and some girl told me—was that Magdalena, Liss?"

"Er… Yes. Beatriz, where's Edward? How did you get here? Is something wrong?"

She stared up at me as if I were an idiot.

"Can we go someplace more quiet?" she asked.

I looked around quickly, and then started to pull her toward the hallway that led out the back door. It was slightly quieter there, but it smelled worse.

"All right," I said, ignoring this and turning to her, and taking hold of her shoulders once again. "What's wrong? Why aren't you at home?"

"What's wrong?" she repeated. "What's wrong?"

I looked at her for a second, and then nodded.

"Yes, Beatriz. What's wrong? What's so important that you had to come find me in the middle of the night?"

"It was the only time I could get away. Edward was having some kind of… meeting with some of his 'constituents.' I got one of the maids to stay with Ann-Marie for the night."

"But why?"

"Why?" she cried. "Because Edward threw you out of our house—almost literally! He's never liked you, and I know you've never liked him, but before he never would have really thrown you out. He was always saying it—threatening to—but he wouldn't have, really. But the other day… Alister! He's been watching me like a hawk, making sure that I didn't call you, or try to go see you at work. He wants me to completely break contact with my only family. He's… he's gone crazy over it! And the worst part is, Alister, he won't tell me why! He won't tell me what made him hate you like this all of a sudden. I mean, for a while there, he almost seemed to like you—he invited you to come to our Christmas party, after all. But now… Liss, you've got to tell me what you've done. I can't imagine what would be so horrible that he'd throw you out of our house and then refuse to tell me why. I don't have any idea what's going on, and I hate it! If I'm going to have to choose between my brother and my husband, I at least want to know why! Liss, you've—"

"Please, Beatriz," I said. I'd unconsciously backed up, and now I was against the wall. "Stop calling me that. It makes me… makes me uncomfortable." I had to look away from her, to the exit sign—the glaring red exit sign.

"Uncomfortable? Liss? …Why?"

"Because it feels like such a long time ago, that anyone called me that. It feels like… disturbing the dead."

"Disturbing the dead? Alister, what the heck kind of doublespeak is that? What are you trying to tell me? That those childhood days when we could be close like that are gone? Is that what you mean?" She grabbed my arm, and I jumped. I pulled away from her, and leaned back against the wall, trying to think of a way to make her understand.

"That's not what I meant to say," I muttered. "I said what I meant to—it makes me uncomfortable and that's all. Like you want me to live up to some sort of expectations that I don't have any hope of competing with. It's not fair to do that. …And your interpretation—that's true, too, I think." I looked back at her sadly. "You don't need me any longer. We're not in the home any more, Beatriz. You don’t need me to protect you. You have Edward."

She scowled, and punched me in the arm.

"That's the stupidest thing ever, Alister! I don't need Edward or you to protect me. It doesn't matter whether I need you or not. You're my family. My blood. Even if you are stupid and secretive and cryptic."

"All right," I said, looking at the floor, now.

"No, not all right! You're just distracting me from the reason I came here tonight. I want to know what's going on. I want to know what you're hiding from me. Alister," she said, grabbing my arm. "Don't keep this a secret any longer. Tell me."

"I…" I looked up to meet her eyes for a moment. She stared back at me, concerned but somehow reproachful about it, and I remembered the expression—from our childhood. From our father. I could remember sitting in the office at school, with the principal standing over me—although why I couldn't recall—and my father squatting in front of me. What have you done, Alister, and why was it wrong? he'd said. Tell me.

"Tell me," Beatriz repeated.

"Beatriz… I-I can't!"

"Alister—"

"No!" I said. "You don't understand! I want to tell you, but I can't. …I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because… I… It would be dangerous, for you to know." And I'm scared to death to see the hurt in your eyes—to see what you think of me reflected in your eyes.

"You're being ridiculous—I'm sure of it! How would it be dangerous? Are you in the secret service, now? Are you a spy? Spies don't starve to death, Alister!"

"Beatriz, I love you. You're all I have. But maybe…"

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe Edward is right. …Maybe you should stay away from me. Maybe you'll be better off."

I looked up at her. Her mouth dropped open in dismay.

"Alister, are you… Are you serious?"

"Yes," I said, looking at the floor again. "I am." It hurt. It hurt, to imagine that I'd never see her again. But it hurt more to imagine what would happen to her if Edward found out about her coming to find me—what if he kicked her out? What if he kicked Ann-Marie out, too? What if they wound up on the streets, hungry and cold and alone? Or worse—in a Deva home. Another one. …Or still worse, what if she found out about me? What if Edward told her? What if I went to jail, and she found out that way, on the news, that her brother was a killer?

"I… I don't believe it," she said. "Alister, what have you gotten yourself into?"

I shook my head.

"I won't tell you, Beatriz."

"You really… You really think it would be best for me not to know?"

I nodded.

"To never see you again?"

"I… I don't want it to have to be that way, Beatriz, but… If you're going to stay with Edward, then… yes. I'm afraid of what he'd do, if it's not like that."

"Liss—" she started.

"Please," I interrupted. "I've asked you before. Don't call me that."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because," I replied sadly. "You said it yourself, once—Liss is dead. I don't know anymore if he ever really existed at all."

I didn't realize that I'd started to cry until Beatriz reached up and wiped my cheek off. I sniffled, and she threw herself against me, wrapped her arms around me.

"I don't want it to be like that, either, Alister!" she murmured. "I just want… I want everything to go back to normal. I want to have a normal life, Alister, with parents and high school, and dates. I don't want to be married with children, and have a brother who can't tell me why he can't tell me anything."

"I'm sorry."

"It's better than not having you at all."

"I'm sorry," I repeated.

"It's too surreal," she said. "I don’t believe it. I don't. … I don't want to."

"I'm going to leave the city, soon, Beatriz," I said softly. "You can call me then… It'll be safer, then."

She laughed bitterly.

"And how will I know when that is?" she asked.

"I'll call you, I guess," I suggested. "I'll call until I get you."

"I'll have to answer the phone from now on, I suppose," she said.

"Guess so," I said.

She squeezed me. Down the hallway there was the sudden sound of people cheering, and counting down from ten. We looked at each other. Beatriz disentangled herself from me as the crowd outside hit one.

"Happy New Year," she whispered to me, and kissed me quickly on the cheek. She gave me another quick hug, and then started to back away. She was crying quietly now, too, but she smiled through it. "I have to go, Alister… Edward will be done, soon. Call me, whenever you are where you… where you want to be, I guess. I… I love you."

"I love you, too," I told her. "And I will."

She smiled again, and then disappeared back into the crowd. I bit my lip and sighed, and suddenly the smell of night air and gardenias filled the hall, masking the previous stench. I turned toward the door—had someone come in behind me? And there in the hall was the young girl with no shoes. She smiled unnervingly. Startled, I jumped backwards and caught myself against the wall, clutching at my heart.

"You—" I started to say.

"What?" she asked, continuing to smile that creepy, knowing smile.

"It's New Year's Eve, for God's sake," I said. "Don't you have anywhere better to be?"

"Where better to be than here with you?" she asked, giggling. "What does a new year mean to me? I've seen so many."

"Well," I muttered, leaning against the wall again, and crossing my arms over my chest, "you'd never know it, looking at you. You better hope no one else comes back here—they'll throw you out."

"They won't," she said.

"What do you want, anyway?" I snapped.

"Is my company not enough?"

"Good things never seem to happen to me when you're around," I said.

"Oh, Starry-eyes… You wouldn't know a good thing if it bit your nose right off!" she declared, laughing.

"And, as they say, if it bit my nose off it wouldn't be such a good thing."

She laughed.

"I think I've heard that one, before!" she declared, and then spun around in a pirouette.

"How do you come and go?" I wondered suddenly. "Do you walk places, like a normal person?" I paused to look at her. "I was thinking—wondering, actually—are you a person at all, or do I just think you are because I'm a person?"

She just smiled.

"I walk like any person walks," she said.

"And what would happen if I touched you?" I asked.

She continued to smile, and did so until I suddenly—before I had time to think over the possible consequences of the action—reached out and grabbed her arm. And then she looked startled. I was startled too. I had excepted my hands to pass through her, like a ghost, or a hologram. She was solid—as solid as any other person, although her skin was at first cold to the touch. It warmed up as soon as my hand closed over her. She squeaked.

"So I surprised you?" I asked. "Good to know that it can be done."

"I don't foresee your every movement," she said, trying to pull away.

For once, I was perfectly at ease with her—she seemed as powerless when held as any other person. I grabbed her other arm and held her tightly.

"That's good," I said. "Convenient, even. …As long as you're here, Gemma, why don't you tell me about yourself? I know so very little—so much less than I'd like to. I'd like to know, for example, why you seem to know so much about everything. And why… why you stopped me from dying, that night. Was I really going to die?"

"Why would I lie about it?" she asked, twisting uncomfortably.

"Why would you let me live, if I was meant to die?"

"There's no such thing as 'meant to die,'" she said.

"What about Sidney, then?" I asked, leaning in toward her.

"What about him?"

"You told us one of us would die… And he died. It wasn't fated?"

"Fate is a word that you couldn't possibly hope to understand," she spat. "You have such a limited grasp of the idea. All of you."

I squeezed her arms more tightly.

"So what does that mean?" I asked. "Was he meant to die, or not?"

"Of course he was meant to die! You're all meant to die, some time."

"But you… Do you decide when?"

"When I want to," she said. "But it's not up to me."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that I let him die," she hissed. "I led him to his death."

"But why?" I asked. "For your own amusement? For your own sick purposes?"

"If that's how you must understand it, then—"

"No," I said, shaking her slightly—falling into that old habit, the way I'd threatened Thistle, Airial. "I don't want you to just assume I understand it my way. I want to understand it your way."

But suddenly, the place where I touched her skin grew cold—cold as death, so cold that it burned horribly, and I unconsciously shrieked, and dropped her arms, and stepped backwards. She fell away from me, laughing cruelly.

"You think that you could understand it my way, you ridiculous man?" She was horrible, suddenly—all wild hair and wild, dark eyes and a mouth full of teeth that were sharper than any human's ought to be. I whimpered, and brought my injured hands to my mouth, blowing on them, trying to bring back their heat, to make them stop hurting.

"You think you could understand anything?" she continued, and she was so loud that I was shocked that no one had come to my rescue yet—how could they not hear this girl speaking in a voice much older than any child's? But she wasn't yelling. How could she be so loud without yelling? She seemed to be sucking all of the light out of the room, all of the air. The single lamp above us flared and flickered dangerously.

"I chose you!" she cried. "I picked you, out of all those dim souls! I chose to make you bright, and this is how you thank me? I guided your hand before you even knew that I existed! It wasn't so long ago—not to me—that you were as lost as the rest of them! I could have let you die—so many times, I could have let you die, and chosen another of your kind. But I didn't. I couldn't. It had already started, by then, and I could not start it over. But still, this is the repayment you give me? You grab me, and try to make me as yourself?"

"Forgive me," I found myself begging her on bended knees. I grabbed with hands that still burned with pain at the hem of her dress. "Please, I—"

"Yes, grovel," she said. "Like you used to. Like you're all meant to. Beg me to help you. Beg for my guidance."

"I'm begging," I said. "Forgive me."

"No," she said. "Not 'forgive me.' 'Help me. Guide me.' It is not my duty, to forgive." Suddenly, she laughed. "But you never did want to play by my rules, did you?"

Above me, the light bulb in its socket gave one final burst of light before suddenly exploding. I reflexively let go of her dress to cover my head, and in that second, she was gone.

Gemma was gone. …Beatriz was gone. And once again I was alone.

After a time, I stood up again. Outside the hallway, the party raged on. I wondered if Jack and Arthur had missed me yet. Would they be looking for me? Should I tell them about Gemma? …I wouldn't tell them about Beatriz, of course. That went without saying, but still… The raw spot that that had left inside of me felt worse, now that Gemma was gone, too, and I was left to think of it alone. I would never see my sister again. I was sure of it. And if I was never going to see her again, then that meant for certain that what she had called Liss—my better half, my promising half—was dead.

I felt empty. I felt that something had to be done. Closure had to be achieved.

I went back out into the crowd then, and found Jack and Arthur much as I had left them.

"Jack," I said.

"Hey!" he crowed at me. "Where th'hell'd you go off to?"

"It's not important," I said. "I have something that I have to do. May I… May I borrow the van? Just for an hour? I'll come back and get you."

"What the hell for?" he asked. "C'mon, it's not important. Just stay here. It's a new year, Lory. New beginnings."

"I know that," I said. "That's why I need the van."

"Hey, now. Calm down. I'll let you use it, if it's that important to you." He tossed me the keys. "Just try not to hit any trees, okay?"

"Thank you," I said quickly. "I'll meet you back here in about an hour."

"Sure, sure… Don't rush yourself."

"Thank you, Jack," I said again, hurrying toward the door. New beginnings, after all, were waiting. But he'd said it himself, just a few days ago: Before the new can grow, the old has to be destroyed.

I contemplated this, as I watched the house burn. …It hadn't been hard. I had, after all, taken down bigger houses, and multiple buildings, even. And they'd been full of people. People who were too busy running away to give me time to enjoy the beauty of the fire, of the destruction. Of the cleansing.

But there were no people here. The only things here were ghosts. Ghosts of things that had died, or had perhaps never existed to begin with.

Liss went down with that burning house. Gone were all of the expectations that anyone could have had for that child, any hopes of a college education, a future career, a family, any sort of future at all. What I remembered of my sister, as well—all the places where we had played, and fought, and eaten graham crackers and cookies on the sly. My mother went down with the house—all of her faded sun dresses and sandals and all of the casseroles she'd made for us and left in the refrigerator until they molded grey-green in Tupperware of the same color. Burned were all of the memories of her watching us play in the sun-dappled yard, the sun-dappled living room, the sun-dappled kitchen, of her standing over my bed at night, dry kisses on my cheek, and cool hands on a fevered forehead. And, too, my father went down, and all of the things Beatriz said I couldn't remember about him. But also burned were the things I did remember—his gardening, his dirty socks all over the house, him holding me up so that I could see inside of the bird house that was in the tree outside, the pancakes that he made every single Sunday morning.

All of it was in there—even though there was no furniture, nothing left except wallpaper and carpet and a pink bowl left on the kitchen counter. And all of it was being burnt. And soon I would be back in Jack's van, driving away, and it would be, in several hours, as though it had never existed at all.

But for the moment, I was content to stand in front of the place that I had once upon a time called home, and watch the smoke float up to the heavens—watch the memories burn off like incense, enjoyed once, and inhaled, and exhaled, and never thought about again.

I turned once, toward the hill where the grave marker stood. Out of the corner of my eye—on the edge of my mind—I thought I saw a girl in a long dress, or heard laughter. But it was, perhaps, only a shadow, the wind in the trees.

When I tired of staring into the soul of the fire, I went back to the van. But long after I was down the road, or even back in town, calling the fire department from a pay phone, it continued to burn in the back of my mind. It burned like Gemma's skin had burned. Cold. It was going out. And soon it wouldn't matter at all, anymore—because I had to focus my attention elsewhere.

Jack had a plan—a plan to take the world back for the people it belonged to. That was where I belonged, now. I was to dedicate myself to this plan, this cause, this future, and think no more of what might have been. It was history, and as dead and unreachable to me as anything in the past is. It was as far away as the Stone Age, the Renaissance, Y2K, and anything in between.

But the future ahead… It would be glorious. We would destroy the Temple, the Shekinah, the Devas, and all of their false peace and love. The world would be balanced again, yang and yin, good and evil, day and night, white and black. All would be as it once had been.

Jack had promised.

And I would follow him to then ends of the Earth, if necessary. But I would make it happen. I would make sure. No matter what.

Even if it killed me.