8: When Icons Attack

"I think this is a happy day, Lory! Come on, smile! It's like, proven that it boosts your mood if you smile."

"No. If I smile, what Devas will read me as is a very uncomfortable man who is smiling, and they'll say to themselves, 'Now isn't that peculiar?'"

"Exactly. So think cheerful thoughts. These are priests of the Shekinah we're talking about. They see an Animal in a bad mood a mile and a half away."

"You realize this is crazy. If Sachever and Airial are so connected to the Temple, like you think, then the priests will know us, too."

"But at least Sachever and Airial won't be there. Really, was sending Sid and Arthur across town to blow up part of the shopping mall not a genius idea?"

"With our luck, Sachever has a twin. I don't see what good going to the Temple is doing us, anyway."

"I want to know more about the sword. Anyway, I've only been once, and I was pretty young. Have you been?"

"My class toured it, in fourth grade."

"That was… how long, before you came to the home?"

"About a week, actually. That was in the last few days of school, if I remember."

"Funny," he said. "Me too. I wonder if they make a lot of arrests right after school gets out?"

"I think we've had this discussion before," I said.

"Probably," he replied. "But god, I wonder what ever happened to Ma. Don't you ever wonder about your parents?"

"Sometimes. I think it's strange that you never see them. In the grocery store or anything, I mean."

"It is weird," he said. "But someday… we'll make it better. We'll make it so that there won't have to be kids like us because of their stupid rules."

I nodded, staring out the window.

"I hope Arthur and Sidney will be okay," I said.

"It's an easy out, you know? They can take care of themselves; don't worry."

"It's just… Sidney's got such a fatalistic attitude, recently. He really believes what Gemma said. How do we know, really, that she was right about Mink?" I said it, but I didn't for a second believe my own words. I knew Gemma could know what would happen. One of us was going to die.

Jack said nothing, only stared straight ahead. After a long time, he laughed.

"Look at us," he said. "Scared of an old woman."

"I'm not sure what she is, to be honest."

"Don't be stupid, Lory."

"A lot of old women are scary, Jack."

He laughed.

"No, really," I continued. "Remember that old Deva woman who smacked me with her cane?"

"Wait, wait," he said, laughing. "Was that before or after you wouldn’t let her and her son out the door of the bank?"

"After," I muttered. "Because I had to move, with her hitting me."

"But I'm sure it was worth it."

"They were very rude, Jack," I muttered. And they had been.

I felt safer, somehow, now that we weren't talking about Gemma. It seemed as if only mentioned her could bring her into the car with us. As if it could allow her to watch us, and hear what we were saying.

And then, Jack turned a corner, and the Temple loomed into view. It was an impressive building—or it would have been, anyway, had I had full opportunity to enjoy it, without worrying about the fact that we were going into the viper's nest.

Jack glanced over at me.

"Jeez, Lory," he said. "Could you at least try not to look like you're going to puke?"

Two blocks and there we were. Jack parked, and I noticed that there was a group of tour buses in the lot, as well.

"Lucky for us," Jack said when I commented on this. "Now let's take three deep breaths," he commanded, "and be calm."

"Do you even know what we're trying to find?" I asked.

"I'll know it when I see it."

"So, no."

"Has that ever stopped us before?"

"…No," I sighed.

"That's the spirit," he said, jumping out of the car. Reluctantly, I followed.

The Temple was surrounded by gardens and fountains, and a stone labyrinth whose walls came only to my waist. The building itself towered over us, but seemed not to cast a shadow. Neither was it threatening, nor imposing, despite the gothic-cathedral face of it.

And, indeed, the people from the tour groups were swarming all over the grounds, taking pictures of the exterior of the building, the labyrinth, limbs of trees that hadn't had leaves in months, and fountains empty of anything except snow.

But Jack and I cut a straighter path—through the throng, and up the sidewalk to the Temple doors. Inside, a woman in a robe—a priestess—smiled at us.

"Enter with a peaceful heart," she said, smiling. Jack did his best school-boy smile at her, and I followed him into the building, through the outside chamber and its doors, and into the Temple proper.

This main hall was huge and cavernous. Banners hung from the walls—depictions of scenes from all of the world's old religions. There was Shiva, dancing the world's destruction, and there Jesus, turning water to wine, and there Raven, flying over the primordial waters. There, too, were the planets. The constellations. The sun, and the moon, and the sea, too.

"Quit gawking," Jack said. "You'd think you'd never seen the stars before."

He lead me up the aisle, between clusters of cushions, where people sat in lotus position—still, and concentrating on the Shekinah. The Shekinah—all of these Devas, coming here to celebrate how much better they are. To sit and gloat. I felt my stomach clench with anger.

And, across the room, several heads lifted. Looked at me. Turned away again. One girl smiled reassuringly, which only served to make the knot in my stomach tighten.

Jack led me to the altar at the front of the room, where incense burned, and a small fire in a sunken pit blazed beside a pool of water. People had left offerings on the altar—money, and fruit, and even a single chocolate bar. Jack looked all this over quickly. He turned and looked at the room behind us, where a dozen people still sat, eyes closed, hands on knees, palms skyward. Jack turned back to the altar. His hand twitched out, and the candy bar disappeared into his sleeve. He turned and walked back up the aisle, and again I followed, until we were back in the entrance hall, where the tour group was now milling about, coming in from the cold.

"This was the first temple to the Shekinah built in this country," a tour guide was saying. "It's the fourth largest, with twelve meditation chambers, priest and priestess's quarters, and of course the catacombs below—that's where they bury the priests and priestesses."

"That was pointless," I muttered to Jack.

"Yeah," he said, then grinned. "Well, not entirely," he said. "Got a snack for later, anyway. Let's look around some more." Without waiting for a response, he sauntered up to the priestess greeting people at the door.

"S'cuse me," he said, "when do tours start?"

"Tours begin every half hour—you just missed one," she said, with a large I'm-being-helpful smile.

"Yeah?" he asked. "Too bad. Say, do they show you the catacombs?"

"Yes," she replied, still smiling. "Parts of them, anyway. Some parts are not open to the public."

"How 'bout a visitors center?" he asked. "Got one of those?"

"Yes," she said. God, I hoped her face would crack from that phony smile. "If you go to the end of the reception area," she said, pointing behind herself, "you'll see a door. "Follow that hallway all the way to the end, and that's the visitor's center."

"Hey, thanks," he said, slapping her shoulder.

"No problem," she said, shying away slightly. She was probably thinking, 'It's my job, you moron.' I was, anyway.

"C'mon, Lory," Jack said, turning back to where I still stood. "Let's check out the visitor's center, eh?"

I nodded and fell into step behind him once again, to the end of the room and into the hallway beyond, which was cold and dark—the only light came from strange bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The upper half of the outer wall was made of glass, and mostly covered with snow, which added no light and took away plenty of heat.

"I hope Sidney's all right," I muttered.

"Stop worrying," Jack said, taking the candy bar out of his sleeve, and snapping it in half. "Have some chocolate." He handed me one of the halves, which I accepted.

"Thank you," I said, biting into it. It tasted funny, but I said nothing.

Smiling slightly, Jack put the other half into his own mouth, and then made a face.

"Whew! How long you think that's been on the altar?"

"Since you last visited, probably," I said.

We'd reached the other end of the hall, and a light glowed warmly under the crack in the door. Jack pushed the door open, and motioned me through.

"The Body is a Temple," was the first thing I heard, stepping inside. It was a man's recorded voice, being played over speakers that the whole room could hear. "A well-run Temple speaks to God, and God speaks back."

"Propaganda," I muttered.

"You are in a temple," Jack said, slapping me on the back and wandering past me, and into the museum-like area. It was filled with glass cases, and text-boards, and statues, and murals, and anything else they could fit in.

"Do not Profane your Body with harmful substances," the voice continued, as I wandered past where Jack had stopped in front of a case, and over to a painting of a middle-aged man. The founder of the Temple, apparently. Beside his portrait were two more—John Shepard and George Epstein. I glared at them, and they smiled back at me. Eternally, they smiled back at whoever happened to be walking by. I stared at them for awhile longer. They both looked so happy. …Well, Shepard did, anyway. Epstein looked like maybe he was faking it—like maybe he wasn't happy with himself at all.

How, I wondered, could they have created such monsters? They themselves had been Animals. If not for them, the world would be ours still—and as it was meant to be. These two men, they were the greatest traitors. They were the original sinners.

What had it been like back then, I wondered. What had it been like, when the world had been full only of natural creatures and their works? Why had these men wanted to change that? They hadn't known, of course, that they'd stirred up this thing—this Shekinah. What had the world been like, before? Before that massive, forced evolution?

"Love your Body as you love the Temple," the voice instructed. "And let the Shekinah stir within you as spring runoff in the dry creek-bed."

"What the hell?" I asked, turning to Jack.

He pressed a finger to his lips, and continued past the portraits, farther into the museum. I trailed, trying to ignore the recorded voice still speaking to no one, extolling the virtues of the Temple and the Shekinah and Devas.

Suddenly, in front of me, Jack stopped.

"Lory, look," he said, pointing to a glass case some way in front of us. Inside of it was a sword.

We were both in front of the case in an instant, reading the information around it, examining the blade. The woman behind the information desk looked us over once before returning to her newspaper.

Jack read the information, and I skimmed it from over his shoulder.

"Nothing that wasn't in the newspaper," he grumbled. "Wait—yes… look here. It says it's missing a piece from the hilt. Look, you can see it there, on the sword. Round. they think it might've been some kind of jewel. Huh." He examined the case appreciatively. "Wonder what that could mean?"

"But wait," I asked, in a near-whisper. "If this is Sachever's sword, and he's supposed to be across town, thwarting Sidney and Arthur… What's it doing here?"

"It's a reproduction, Lory," Jack said flatly.

I blinked.

"Oh, right," I said, examining it more closely, and wondering how I'd failed to notice that before—this sword did not have the same… glow. It may well have been plastic.

"It says the old bastard who found it is buried down there," Jack said, still reading.

"Oh… So, what now, Jack?" I wondered.

"Hush up. I'm thinking."

I pressed my lips together, and watched him tap his foot impatiently against the ground.

"I'm drawing a blank," he confessed after a moment, shrugging. Then he turned toward the information counter.

"Hey, lady," he yelled. "Which way're the catacombs?"

She looked up, frowned, and pointed to another door at the end of the room.

"To the left and down the stairs," she said. "And please don't yell in the Temple—especially the catacombs."

She looked over at the other doors as the first wave from the tour buses hit.

Jack grabbed my sleeve and started propelling me toward the door she'd pointed out.

"Could I get a look at your papers?" she called after us.

"Sorry!" Jack called without looking back, "Left 'em in the car!"

He jerked the door open, pushed me inside, and hurried in after. Jack continued past me, toward the staircase, and I realized suddenly how dark the hall was. How small. Like a cave. Like a grave, some part of my mind piped up. I hurried after Jack, down the stairs, and into an area more dimly lit than before. It was like anyone would imagine catacombs to be—stone walls, floor. Slightly damp air, and a musty smell. Tapestries covered the walls before us, woven with pictures of heroes I didn't recognize. A man on a horse, with a shield and a lance. A boy in a field of corn. A girl standing under the moon, and an old woman at a loom. I felt suddenly claustrophobic—thought I had never been, before. I felt…cornered.

"Jack," I said, nervously, backing up.

"What, Lory?" he asked, sounding bored. He went further into the tomb, while I continued to back up, until I hit the wall. The stairs were to my right—an escape route.

"What, Lory?" Jack repeated testily. He turned. His face was shadowy, but I could see his impatience with me—his temper was wearing thin. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I-I…" I couldn't say, really. "I want to leave," I finally replied.

He arched one eyebrow.

"Why might that be?" he wondered.

"I don't know. I don't like it here. It's like… what Gemma said… all here… coming true…" Half-formed thoughts spilled out, without making much sense.

"Don't be a twit," Jack said sharply, and then disappeared down the hall. And, in the hallway above, something creaked.

"Oh my god," I hissed, taking off after him. "Jack, wait!" I slowed down beside him. "What are we looking for?" I asked, trying to regain a little dignity.

He shrugged.

"I was thinking, though," he said, dropping his voice, although we appeared to be alone. "This place would be just absurdly easy to blow up. We should do it."

"Don't say that here," I hissed, turning in a full circle to look back behind us and at the walls—walls with bodies behind them. "All these priests and priestesses."

"God," Jack said loudly. It echoed off the walls. "You really have gone soft." He stopped at a fork in the path. Considered. Turned left. The path began to slope down, as if we were going father into the earth. After a second of hesitation, I followed him.

"No," I protested. "I haven't. It's just… this place. It doesn't… Don't you feel strange, down here?"

"No."

"I do."

The ground had a definite slope now, but Jack seemed not to care. We made another turn—to the left again—and I wondered where Jack was leading me, with such confidence.

"Why do you?" he asked. "It's just dead people. Dead people aren't dangerous. They're dead."

"I don't know," I muttered.

"I didn't ask you a question," he said. He laughed. I shuddered at the sound, at the way it bounced off the walls, and seemed to fly at my face. At my throat.

"God," he said, eyeing me sidelong. "You really are freaked out. Don't worry, Lory. I promise, nothing'll happen to you. No dead people will grab your ankles."

"Well," I started to say, but just then my toe caught the edge of something, and I went down—knee hit hard stone, and the heels of my hands scraped on the ground. I winced at the jarring of the place where Sachever had cut my palm open.

Jack laughed.

"What the hell was that, Lory?" His voice rang out like a bell in the somber passage. "Did a ghost push you over?"

"Don’t know," I grunted, sitting up and rubbing at my knee. I looked back to see what had tripped me. "Loose flagstone," I muttered. I kicked at it. It made a strange noise—almost as if…

Almost as if it had hit something metal.

Jack seemed to realize this just as I did. He dove at the stone and started pulling it up.

"You don't think… Could there be two? Could they store it back down here when they're not using it?" he asked breathlessly.

"No way," I muttered, but joined him in pulling it up. At last it gave way, and Jack pushed it aside, and underneath was… a small metal disk, engraved with ornate designs.

"'The hell?" Jack spat. "It's just some bauble."

"It's pretty," I said.

He gave me a look. "Sometimes I think you've got nothing between your ears, Lory. You're sure that you weren't a blonde, before you got hit by lightning?" He picked the thing up, examined it, and then threw it at me scornfully. "You think it's pretty? So you take it," he said.

I caught it clumsily, put it in my pocket, and stood.

"I guess I will," I said, slightly hurt, but following him once more. "What are we looking for, Jack? Where are we going?"

"I'm looking for the guy who found the sword's tomb. He died pretty quick after he found it—that's what the case up there said. His tomb should be around here."

"What do you think you'll find there?"

"I don't know. A hint. A clue. A feeling. Something." He stopped, suddenly. "Look. That door must be it."

The door was wood, ornately carved with vines and flowers. Jack pulled the handle. After a moment of him straining against it, the door opened. Inside, the room was dimly lit by candles. The coffin looked old—much older than seventeen years. It was stone, with a man carved into the top. A young man, I could tell, even from that distance. His arms were crossed over his chest. I hung back, in the doorway, while Jack ventured inside.

"Who lights these candles every day?" he wondered. "That would be a horrible job. I wouldn't want to do it. Who comes back and blows them out at night?"

"Who says anyone does?"

He looked up at me. Smiled.

"Maybe they don't," he said. He looked down at the coffin in front of him almost disdainfully. "You know," he said, "none of those things—the newspapers, the case upstairs—said just where it was that they found the sword. Or why it's named Gaudium Gladius. Where did that come from, you think? Did they make it up, or did they know, somehow, that that was the sword's name?"

I shrugged.

"What is it, really?" he kept on. "A sword that glows. A girl who knows where we're hiding." He looked down again, at the face on the sarcophagus. He reached over and patted the man's cheek encouragingly. "I guess he can't tell us much, now."

"I wonder what it feels like, through the Shekinah, when someone dies," I murmured. I wondered, suddenly, if someone had felt Thistle die. No one had been told—for all the Seraphim knew, she was still just missing. Just a runaway. But had someone else been watching? Had someone else felt it? Gemma had known. Was she the only one?

"That's such crap," Jack said. "Don't even start."

"I'm sorry," I said. "Maybe you should have brought Sidney along, today. I don’t know what's wrong with me. It's just… spooky down here."

"Seriously, though, Lory. Imagine Sidney down here. If it's got you this freaked, he'd probably have fainted by now or something." He looked around once more at the tomb's bare stone walls. "There's nothing here for me," he said. "So if it's bothering you that much, let's go."

I nodded, and started out of the tomb. He closed the door behind himself, and we headed up again, toward the light.

"So," Jack started once again, lowly. "If we blew this place up, here's what we'd do. Put a bunch down here—maybe Ones. Probably Ones. We need for Sidney to rig up some more, after the clinic. We're running pretty low. Anyway, we get down here—blow the foundations out. The rest would crumble right?"

Suddenly, there were footsteps ahead. Jack abruptly stopped talking, then started again.

"Have you heard from your sister?" he asked. "How's she doin'? How's Ann-Marie?"

"Good," I said. "They're both at home again."

Up ahead, white robes came into view. An older man—a priest.

He nodded at us. Jack lifted a hand in greeting.

"Looking for buried treasure?" the man asked.

"Sure," Jack said amicably.

"I'm afraid you'll only find old, dusty bones down here," he laughed. "Myself included!"

Jack laughed, and we passed by him.

"He looked like Sachever," Jack hissed at me, from a safe distance away.

"What?" I asked. "No, he didn't." I turned around, and what I saw made me stop. Noticing this, Jack too stopped, and turned around.

Because the priest had vanished without a trace. There had been no turns in the hallway—no doors that he could have conceivably gone into so quickly. He was simply gone.

Neither of us spoke for a time. Then Jack laughed nervously.

"Well, Lory," he said, "How about going to get some lunch?"

By the time I got to Beatriz's house that night at eight-thirty, it looked as though someone had opened a used car dealership on their property. Cars were parked everywhere—including the front yard, which was where I ended up parking, myself. My car wouldn't be hard to find later, either. It was both the oldest car there and the dirtiest.

This was the first of their Christmas parties that I'd been to. Beatriz had invited me before, but I'd always turned her down, knowing full well that I wasn't actually welcome. Maybe, I thought, Edward had changed his mind by now and I wouldn't be welcome this time, either. But there would be no harm in checking, I decided, because they were sure to be serving food of some sort, and dinner had been miserably small.

A servant answered the door, and took my coat and scarf away to parts unknown. It was warm inside, and bright with decorations, and it smelled spicy—like Yule is supposed to. There was a huge tree pushed up against the side of the staircase, almost obscuring it from view. The tree was covered with small white lights, and strings of red berries, and small ornaments in the shape of white birds. Doves. Besides the tree, there were wreaths and pine garlands everywhere, so that the house was nearly a forest. Also strung up were more of the same red berries, and with them some sort of beads that glittered golden. And underneath the currents of laughter and general chatter, I could hear strains of music.

Looking over the living room, I realized just how many Devas were there. Edward's coworkers, doubtless. It appeared that there were very few Animals there at all. Additionally I realized that I didn't know a single person—except one, of course. Beatriz was sitting on the couch, sandwiched between a woman with makeup in excess, and an older man. She looked uncomfortable, or bored at the very least. I caught her eye, and she stood up and rushed over to me, smiling. No one seemed to notice that she'd left.

"Liss!" she said, throwing her arms around me. "You came!"

"Yes, I did," I said, smiling. She looked so excited about it.

"That's so wonderful!" she said. "You've never come, before. It'll be lots of fun, you'll see."

I nodded, smiling.

"The house looks beautiful," I said. "So do you, Beatriz." And she did. She was wearing a very fancy dress—black, with a high neck, but the sleeves, shoulders, and part of the chest were sheer. The whole thing glimmered with beadwork. It looked horribly expensive.

But, at my words, her face fell.

"I do not. I look like a fat slob," she said.

"What?" I asked, taken aback. "You do not."

"Do too. You're just trying to be nice."

"Don't be stupid. I don't have to be nice to you. You're my sister."

She smiled half-heartedly.

"Really," I continued, smiling reassuringly at her. "You do look nice. But what've you done with Ann-Marie?"

"Oh… her. We hired a baby sitter, of course. She's upstairs. I was about to go check on her anyway, though."

"I'll come with. You can introduce me to all of these people, after."

"All right," she said, smiling completely insincerely. I followed her behind the tree and up the stairs. It smelled wonderfully of pine on the steps, but the second floor was curiously bare and quiet. Beatriz led me to the end of the hall and opened the door to the nursery quietly.

Inside, a middle-aged woman sat reading. Soft, lullaby-type music was playing. Ann-Marie appeared to be asleep in her crib.

"You can take a break for a few minutes," Beatriz told the woman, who stood quickly and left the room.

Beatriz moved toward the crib and stood over it. After a moment, I went and stood beside her and leaned carefully on the edge of it.

"It's so funny to think that we were all that small, once," I said softly. She looked like porcelain—like a doll, laying there, so perfectly made. "She's beautiful. Isn't she?"

"I don't know," Beatriz said, looking down at her with something that was very nearly dislike, and pursing her lips. "I think she's kinda funny looking." She moved away from the crib and went and leaned against the wall next to the window.

"She's only three days old, after all," I said. "I usually think new babies look weird, too. But she doesn't. She's lovely." I regarded Beatriz for a moment—her arms were crossed over her chest, her lips were still pursed. She looked like she wished I would change the subject. "She's yours," I finished, after a second.

"And Edward's," she said, turning to look at me. "That's how everyone else is treating it. Like Edward had the baby all by himself. Nobody cares about me."

"Oh, come on. That's not true."

"Is so. None of his friends are paying any attention to me at all, now that I'm not… not carrying his child around anymore! I'm like a Reproduction Clinic to them—only less cool, because you have to feed me, and the machines there do it with just electricity."

"Beatriz, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I said, looking her straight in the eye. She looked away, and appeared to be about to burst into pouty tears.

"It's not stupid, it's true. Look, Liss. I invited some of my friends—my old friends, from the home—to come this year. So that I'd have someone to really talk to and have fun with, for once. Four of them turned me down outright. A couple said yes, at first, but then cancelled. Three showed up—three. They came right at seven, and saw the baby. We talked for about half an hour, and then when everyone else started coming, they left. We don't have anything in common, anymore! There was nothing to talk about. It was horrible, Liss." She was crying, now. "It was horrible."

"Oh, Beatriz," I said, standing up, away from the crib. "It's not a big deal, is it? You'll make new friends."

"Sure," she said bitterly. "With other mothers. At the daycare center, or the park. We can wash puke stains out of things together, while our husbands throw lavish parties!" She hiccoughed, then sniffed. "It'll be so much fun."

"Don't cry, Beatriz," I said, knitting my brow. "You know that's not true. Don't cry—look, you're smudging your makeup. Please stop."

"No!" she yelled. "I won't stop! I—" And then the baby started crying, startled by the outburst, and interrupting the tantrum about to take place.

"Oh, shut up!" she grumbled, pushing me aside, and picking Ann-Marie up and rocking her fiercely.

"Beatriz, it's not her fault, you know," I chided.

"It is too her fault!" Beatriz said, and then, "Here, you hold her." She thrust the fussing baby into my arms.

"But I've never—" I protested.

"You're doing it fine," she snapped. "Besides, what do I care if you're not?"

"Beatriz," I said, genuinely shocked, and trying to readjust Ann-Marie and calm her down at the same time. "You know you don't mean that! You're acting like a child. Like a spoiled brat."

"It's because I am a child!" she said. "I'm only nineteen, Alister!" She started sniffling again. "I'm too young for this. I'm not ready. I don't want to be a mother! Do you…" She turned away, toward the door, and brought her fingernails to her mouth. "Do you think Edward would let me put her up for adoption?"

"God! Listen to yourself! You're acting crazy. You can't possibly mean any of this. Just go back downstairs, already, because you're being completely childish, and it's upsetting the baby. And me, too. I'll stay here, and wait until the babysitter comes back."

Suddenly, her whole mood seemed to change.

"No," she said. "I'll stay. You're right. I know it's not Ann-Marie's fault. I'm just… I'm mad at Edward. He's been ignoring me all night for his politician friends."

"So you're taking it out on your three-day-old?" I snapped. Beatriz winced, and looked abashed, and I sighed. "Look," I continued. "I'm sure he doesn’t mean anything by it. He probably thinks you're having fun." Ann-Marie had quieted down again, and I set her back in the crib.

"Whatever," Beatriz muttered. The door opened, and the babysitter slipped back into the room.

"I'll go introduce you, now," Beatriz said bitterly.

But she didn't get the chance, because Edward was now holding court in the living room. He'd taken a position on the coffee table, and whatever he had been saying before, he stopped cold when he saw Beatriz and me.

"Look, everyone," he called, to the amusement of those gathered in the living room. "It's Alister—that's Beatriz's brother. I told you about him, didn't I? C'mere, Alister." I followed Beatriz into the room. She took her previous place on the couch, but Edward grabbed my arm and pulled me up on the table with him, knocking over glasses and spilling things. Out of habit, my lip curled at his touching me, and he laughed. His face was practically glowing.

"Alister's one of three people who can truly insult me," he said, almost boastfully. "What'd you call me the other day?" he asked.

"A blustering, egomaniacal sack of shit?" I wondered, after a second of hesitation.

"Yeah!" he slapped me on the back. "Go on, Alister. Insult me again."

I looked at him warily, unable to think of anything to say, let alone come up with an insult. And just when, I wondered, had he gone from just no longer minding me, as at the hospital, to this? Was it some kind of bizarre friendly gesture, or was I being mocked?

"You can't do that," an old man standing in the archway to the hall said. He was strange looking—wearing a candy-striped jacket and white pants. Like someone out of a barber's shop quartet. "You have to give him a reason to. Really, Edward."

The crowd laughed. Beatriz sulked. I felt awkward.

"Mr. McToad, there you are!" Edward cried. He jumped down from the table, pulling me with him, and knocking more glasses over.

"Edward!" Beatriz said sharply, standing up.

"Just a second, Bee," he said, dragging me through the room, toward Mr. McToad. "We'll be back in a minute."

He was pulling me out of the living room now with alarming speed. I turned and gave Beatriz a look that I hoped would suggest that she come save me, but her eyes had narrowed to slits, and she looked ready to kill someone—anyone. Myself included.

"Edward?" I asked. "Where are we going?" He was taking me under the stairs, it appeared, and to the room that I believed was his study. Mr. McToad was following.

"In here," Edward said, throwing open the door.

Six other Animal men of about Edward's age sat around the room—on a leather couch and chairs of the same style, and one behind Edward's desk. A fire blazed in the hearth on the opposite wall. The same Yule music played in here as in the living room.

Edward pulled me into the room, and Mr. McToad followed, shutting the door.

Suddenly, Edward pushed me violently. Caught off guard, I stumbled forward a few steps, into the middle of the room.

"This is Alister Siderius," Edward announced. "Brother of my lovely wife." At the introduction, I stood up a little straighter. Adjusted my shirt. Tried not to feel like I was an exhibit at the zoo. "You know," Edward continued, to me, almost as an aside, "one day you really must tell me what she was like as a child. Anyway," he said, once again addressing the rest of the room, "Alister, this is Keith Bronkowski, Rick Perkins, Derek Winters, Stefan Walton, Robert Martin, and Fred Clarke. Oh, and Mr. McToad!"

"Craig McDuff," the man said, flashing a mouth full of very small, very yellow teeth. "But Mr. McToad is fine."

"He-hello," I said nervously, smiling a bit, feeling very shabbily dressed, looking around this room full of expensive suits and ties, and definitely wanting to run back to the familiar face of my sister, even if she was out for someone's blood.

Edward came up behind me, and threw an arm about my shoulders.

"Somebody get the kid a drink, already," he said. He shook me a little, in a friendly way. "Whaddya want?"

"I really don't care," I said. Although I did want him to let me go. Or at least sit down.

"Oh, you've got to care," he said, guiding me over to the couch. Keith and Rick scooted over to make room for me, and I sat down between them.

"I'm fine, really," I said.

"Gin and tonic, Mr. McToad," Edward commanded, jumping onto a convenient ottoman. This was becoming, as at the hospital, increasingly surreal. And more than slightly unpleasant.

"Do you know what's wrong with the world today?" Edward asked all of us, speaking like a man at a pulpit, as Mr. McToad handed me my drink.

And so Edward launched into a tirade. One that spanned five hours, a good deal of mixed drinks, and an array of changing faces. Stefan left, and Allen appeared. Derek was exchanged for Barry. Rick just left. And this continued until two o'clock, when I suddenly realized that the only people left in the room were myself, Edward, and Mr. McToad.

"Warrior popes," Edward said, from where he was laying in front of the fire. "That's what's wrong with the world today, my friends."

I laughed. I had previously been successfully managing to balance four stacked glasses on my knee, but the movement caused them to fall off. Lazily, I watched them hit the carpet and roll.

"Give those warrior popes an inch," Mr. McToad said, "and they take a mile."

For a while, no one spoke. The fire crackled. I rolled the fallen glasses under one foot, and drained the one that was in my hand.

"No," Edward said lowly after a time. "I've been thinking about it. I've been thinking about it a lot." He propped himself up on one elbow, and looked at us blearily. "You know what's really wrong with the world today?"

"What?" I wondered.

"Devas," he said, eyes glinting dangerously.

I sat up a little bit straighter.

"Hear, hear," said Mr. McToad.

"Really," Edward said. He lay back down, rolled onto his back, and spoke at the ceiling. "They've taken everything and twisted it all… twisted it all up to their own ends! They've been around three hundred years. That's nothin', in the grand scheme of things. Y'know? That's nothin'."

Mr. McToad and I nodded in agreement, although he couldn't see this.

"We've been around billions of years," said Edward. "They say God made us—people like you and me! And then some fancy-schmancy scientist comes along and bang! Everything changes. We're reduced to… To second-class citizens, that's what. That's not how it's s'posed to be." He sighed.

"Yeah," I started to say. "And have you ever been in a Reproduction Clinic? Have you ever seen what they do there? Babies in tubes, everywhere. It's not natural. It's not right." I realized after I said it that it was a mistake—how would I have been inside a Reproduction Clinic, unless I'd broken in? But Edward and Mr. McToad seemed not to notice.

"Sometimes," Edward continued. "I kinda think that those Hungry Ghosts got a pretty good thing goin'."

Mr. McToad nodded. My eyes widened in shock—he was the damned Head of the Council of Homo Sapiens Minor. It was his job to get along with Devas, and make sure that the interests of us Animals were being protected.

…But then again, wasn't this view of his accomplishing just that?

"And y'know," Edward said, sitting up again, and wagging his finger at us, "I know for a fact—for a fact—that Stefan and Derek feel exactly the same way."

"Hmm," Mr. McToad muttered. "Me too."

"I wonder where they get the money," Edward mused. "Someone must be funding 'em. …I'd do it. I'd gladly give money. 'Give 'til it hurts'—you know what they say!"

But what to do? Did he really believe what he was saying, or was he just… just blustering, again?

"Me too," said Mr. McToad, almost dreamily. "Those kids're fighting for what they believe in—nothin' wrong with that."

"Couldn't fund them publicly, of course," Edward said, waving one hand. "No tax write-offs. Bit dangerous. Still. I'd do it."

"Part of the thrill, really—the danger," said Mr. McToad.

I happened to look up at the clock at that moment.

"God," I said. "It's already two-twenty. …I should pro'ly go."

"Why," Edward said. "I hope we didn't scare you off, with our… renegade talk. I thought you felt the same way, Alister."

"I do," I said, stifling a yawn. "But you forget how far away I live." I stood up, steadying myself against the arm of the couch.

"Sure, sure," Edward said, sitting up. "On your way, then." He also stood, and made his way over to the couch, where he dropped down. "Take some of the food, on your way out. Don't want leftovers."

"All right," I said. "Good night."

"Good night," Mr. McToad called after me.

The rest of the house was dark and deserted. And a mess. There was not, in fact, much food left. There was fruitcake, which I did take. Someone would eat it. In the Hungry House, everything got eaten—except a tin of sardines we'd had, once.

The Hungry House… Thinking that name, even, made me think of Thistle. The car felt so cold, so lonely, without her—on that night, perhaps even more so than the bed had at home. Or the house, in general. I wanted her there, with me. I wanted to talk to her again. I wanted to ask her about her family. About her old friends. I wanted to ask her her favorite color, her favorite food, what she thought was lucky, and all the things I'd never thought to do while I had the chance. I wanted to ask her what she'd wanted to grow up to be, when she was small. I wanted to ask her about when she'd stopped believing in the Tooth Fairy. I wanted to talk to her about stupid things that were of no consequence after the conversation ended.

But most of all, I wanted to ask her why she had betrayed us. Why she had come to us in the first place, if she had had no intentions of staying.

And I knew that if it had been me who had found out of her traitorous plans, she'd still be alive. I would have let her go. Maybe even have gone with her. I could not have done what Jack did, for the group. I could not have killed her. Nor could I have watched her killed, if I had known that that had been his intention. For that, I felt even worse—was I too disloyal, then? Was I a traitor, for having fallen in love with her? For wanting her back, even now?

And again I cried for her. It was idiotic, and it felt that way—she was a traitor. She didn't deserve tears. …But at the same time, I mourned for the side of her that I had loved, and lost to more things than death. Crying for her was made even more idiotic by the fact that the tears made the road blur dangerously—or had it been blurred, before? No matter. Couldn't quite see the road right, didn't care why. …And, of course, the fact that it was idiotic made it even worse—added an element of self-pity that hadn't been there, before. Poor, stupid Alister—going off and falling in love with a traitor. Two traitors, really, if one counted Airial. But one didn't, of course. Because that was only lust, and anyway, she wasn't really a traitor because she'd never been committed to our cause in the first place. She'd never been privy to our secrets. Yes, poor, stupid Alister, who never really does anything right.

In this haze of malaise, I managed to miss our driveway, and had to turn around half a mile down the road and go back.

Walking up to the house, I tried to wipe my face off with my coat sleeve. The cold air felt strange, against the damp laver over my cheeks. And I felt stupid, besides. Really stupid.

Inside, I threw my coat across the bench in the hallway, and kicked my shoes against the wall with enough force that it nearly caused me to fall over.

"Sidney?" came a voice from the kitchen, and for one brief second, I hoped it was Thistle, although the voice was Magdalena's.

"Lory," I called back. I headed in that direction, and leaned against the wall between kitchen and hallway. "What're you doing up, anyway?" I wondered, slightly suspiciously.

"I dunno," she said. Orange peels sat on the table in front of her. "Couldn't sleep, I guess." She laughed, and then looked up at me. "Lory," she said, now sounding a bit suspicious, herself. "Did you drive home?"

"No, Magdalena," I said. "A troupe of good fairies picked me up and carried me home."

"God," she said. "I'm just asking. You don't have to be an asshole, you know. I'm just worried that, I don't know, either you or Sidney or Jack is going to kill yourself one of these days, doing something stupid like that. But why would you care? Death doesn't bother you, does it, Lory? Does it?"

I blinked at her, surprised.

"What kind of stupid question is that?" I asked. "Of course death bothers me." Suddenly, I felt dizzy. I wanted to go to sleep. "Death bothers everyone."

"Really?" she asked. She sounded tired, too. "I mean, you don't act like it, do you? None of you do. Like killing people's just a game, or somethin'."

"It's not a game," I said. "Why would you think that?" I could feel myself sway slightly, but it was as if it was someone else's body. I wasn't involved—I was watching Magdalena. And she looked confused, and stared at the orange peel in front of her.

"Jack acts like it, sometimes. Like it's… like it's all a big puzzle, and if he just moves the pieces right—fits 'em in the right places—then he'll win. It's not good to use people like that, Lory. I wish he'd see that."

"He knows what he's doing," I told her, shutting my eyes. I could almost have gone to sleep right there, leaning against the wall.

"That's what I'm afraid of," she muttered, then sighed. "Y'know, when I first met Jack, I kinda think that's what I liked. He'd sweep a girl right off her feet! And he did, too, you know. I mean, you wouldn't know, personally—"

"I might."

"Well, not the way I do, I mean. I hope." She giggled. "Maybe I shouldn't ask, right?" For a moment the house was quiet, but then she started to speak again. "I think that's what I fell in love with," she said. "That with Jack, you never really do know. What he's thinking, or what he's really doing, or anything. He's the best at planning surprises and stuff. Like for my birthday, one time. It was wonderful. And he never forgets stuff like that, either, although… Although if he's mad, he'll ignore it, just to show you who's boss. But he's a dreamer, at heart—don't you think? He's practical about it, too, though. Head in the clouds, feet on the ground—that's what they say about people like Jack. …I think I fell in love with that, too." She sighed. I heard her chair scrape against the floor, but was starting to drift again. Starting to think about Thistle again. Starting to…

"Oh!" Magdalena cried suddenly. "Lory!"

My eyes snapped open again.

"What?"

"Looked like you were gonna fall right over," she said. She smiled. "Why don't you go to bed?"

"Yeah," I said. "I guess I will." I turned to go, but then looked back at her. "What about you?" I wondered.

"I'm gonna stay down here, I think, for a while."

I nodded.

"Right, well… Good night, then."

"Good night, Lory."