Reaching the second floor, I find a foothold on another sill, and then reach up to grab a third-floor window. I shove upwards with all my might, but the window doesn’t budge, doesn’t move one inch. Locked.
There are more windows on either side; I’ll have to try those ones, hope for a miracle.
But before I can step across to the next sill, the window above me opens and a head pops out.
I have to jump—I have to—no other choice—just drop and hope I don’t break a leg and then run as hard and as fast out of this place as possible, because I’m caught.
I’m caught.
My muscles tense as I prepare for the fifteen foot fall.
“Adele?” a voice says from above, stopping me just before I step off the ledge.
I look up and gasp.
It’s impossible. No, not impossible, unless I’m dreaming, because though—
—her cheeks are slightly thinner and—
—her eyes dark with tired bags under them—
—I’d recognize this woman anywhere.
I’ve never seen her in person, only on the telebox.
But my mother has, years ago, when she plotted and schemed to implant the very microchip in my back that would lead me to Tristan, and Tristan to me.
Tristan’s mother, Jocelyn Nailin, stares down at me. “Come inside,” she says. “They’re looking for you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Siena
With crows a-cawing and vultures wheeling lazy circles above us, I chase after Skye.
She’s almost to the bodies and I don’t want her to see ’em close up, but I’m afraid it’s too late, ’cause though I’m faster’n her, she got a good head start on me and she’s searin’ motivated. Black-winged birds scatter in front of her, taking flight in a swarm, Skye screaming at ’em, using words so colorful I wonder where she even learned ’em.
And I know she’s looking, looking, looking for one body in particular, and that’s the one body I don’t want her to see. I mean—I don’t want her to see any of ’em, but please, sun goddess, not that one—not him.
The birds keep lifting off ’round her, melting into a swarm of black, almost disappearing against the darkening sky. I’m amidst the carnage now, too, and I lift my hands to shoo the birds off the bodies, which are stained with blood, both old and fresh, from the Glassies and the crows. If anyone had survived the attack, the birds finished ’em off.
“Skye, wait!” I shout, and she stops. I think I’ve done it, that I’ve gotten through to her, but she don’t turn ’round, just stares ahead at something. She’s found who she’s a-looking for.
I take off running again, ’cause maybe I can catch her now that she’s walking slowly, toward a body laying off from most of t’others in the durt. There’s a line of ’em, like they were defending the rest of the village, which I know they were, ’cause that’s what Dazz’d do.
Skye stops when she’s nearly there, and I stop, too, ’cause there’s a—a—a huge searin’ bird just setting on Dazz’s chest. A vulture, with a hooked beak and old, gnarly face, and the blackest eyes you’ve ever seen. It looks at Skye and she looks back at it, and then it ducks it’s head and goes right back to pecking at—I can’t hardly say his name again, much less think it—at him.
Well, Skye lets out the loudest yell—more like a ROAR!—I’ve ever heard from her, and charges at that nasty ol’ vulture. The beast-bird hangs on till the very last moment, as if it’d rather face my sister’s wrath’n pull itself away from its meal, but then it goes, lifting off, pumping its wings with a whoomp whoomp whoomp! and it’s gone, soaring ’cross the desert, in search of something else dead to snack on.
Skye kneels, drops her body on top of Dazz, whose body is pocked with holes from fire sticks, riddled with fierce red peck marks from that burnin’ vulture. Skye starts shaking, her muscled body convulsing in waves.
No. Everything is so wrong, so searin’ wrong—can it ever be right again? Can any of us ever be the same after seeing this, the way the Glassies killed ’em all and then left ’em to be picked clean by the birds?
I whirl in a circle, the world spinning ’round me, full of death and pain and more’n more birds taking flight as Wilde and Circ and Feve and a few others chase ’em off. I’m overwhelmed with feelings, but the one that’s the strongest is…
—I turn to see Skye standing, still shaking—
—turning toward me, and there ain’t no tears on her face—
—and her face ain’t torn and broken, no, it’s strong, like mine—
—’cause in that moment I realize she’s feeling exactly what I’m feeling:
…
…
RAGE.
~~~
I can’t believe they just left the bodies in the desert. I’ve said it ’bout three times and thought it a million. Even when we defeated the Glassies when they attacked our village, we disposed of their bodies. They were still people, after all, and no one deserves to become the next meal for a scavenger.
But the Glassies couldn’t be bothered to do more’n loot the carts and the bodies, taking everything of value—there ain’t a weapon to be seen—and leaving ’em to the crows.
Evil.
Searin’ evil.
As I’ve been helping to carry, pull, and drag the bodies into one place, I’ve let my rage subside, dropping the anger into a hole somewhere deep within me, somewhere hidden. I’ll save it, let it simmer…until I need it.
Skye carries Dazz’s large, strong body herself, over her shoulder, refusing help, like it’s her duty. I think we’re all a little afraid she’ll bite our hands off if we ignore her and try to help anyway.
Instead, I help Wilde carry Buff, and then Dazz’s mother. Her cheeks are streaked with tears but she doesn’t say anything, just gets on with it.
Afterwards, as we continue to search through the dead, I find her. Jolie. Dazz’s sister. She’s almost Jade’s age, but her skin’s white like snow where my sister’s is as brown as a bog hole. I try not to look down as I pick her up in my arms, but I can’t help it. Wow. She takes my breath away and shatters my heart with just that one peek, ’cause she looks so peaceful, angelic, her face unmarked, unbloodied, her eyes closed and her mouth turned up in an almost—is that a smile? What’d give her cause to smile even as her family and friends were being slaughtered, I may never know, but maybe, just maybe, as she was dying, as the life was draining out of her—too soon, far too soon—she was seeing something that the rest of us living folk can’t. Something beyond this world: a better place, a better life, where folks don’t go ’round killing each other. A place where there ain’t sandstorms and the Fire and Killers. Maybe she could see her brother, Wes, who died trying to save her life, and her father, dead years earlier from the Cold. Maybe she could even see Dazz, who’d died moments earlier protecting her. And if they were all beckoning to her, showing her this magical place where no one’s dead, then why wouldn’t she be smiling even as she took her last breath?
Even as I’m setting her down with the rest of the bodies, I’m wondering: Do any of us have cause to fear death? It’s not like we should be seeking it out, but if it comes to us, should we spend our last moments screaming and crying and worrying over it, or should we do like Jolie did, and smile, one last time, letting happiness form on our faces for ever and ever?
I almost share what I think with Skye, but unlike me, her rage is still rippling over the surface of her skin, forming a hard shell on her face, filling her already strong body with extra power.