Rhian

I hated thank-yous almost as much as I hated the thought of being buried alive. Good news is, I wasn’t buried alive, and my ears were still ringing, so I didn’t have to hear Alexander say thank you. His grip around my wrist was weak. No big deal. I pulled the bolt out of his back with the other hand, and the wound healed quickly.

After everything he’d done for us and after everything he’d been through, he deserved a shot.

And not the same kind of shot his Crazy Bitch sister deserved.

“Someone told me there’s no mercy in death when life’s still an option,” I said, loudly and whatnot. For the record, everything we’re about to say was said loudly. Like I said, my ears were still ringing. Frankly, they haven’t stopped.

Alexander climbed to his feet and peeked through the portrait-door.

That passageway to the church was sealed off with the last explosion. Good stuff, but opening the portrait-door let in a puff of dust. Seeing as it probably wouldn’t be any better going forward, I repurposed my Palisade armband into a mask. Like a goddess-be-damned bandit.

I gestured around the room. “Do you want anything?”

Alexander considered the portrait-door for a minute. To be fair, it was an excellent likeness.

“No,” he decided. “We should go.”

I pointed to the pile of ashes nearby. “What about that?”

Alexander shook his head. “She’s fine with our family.”

Taking one last look around the cavern with the butter-yellow drapes but no window, I spotted the hilt of Intrep-what-the-bloody-ever poking out from under the bed. Michael’s sword was nearly as tall as I was. Therefore, entirely useless to me.

I passed the weapon to Alexander, and we left Lidia’s room down the corridor at the back.

If Bells’s half-arsed mapping meant anything, the long-arsed tunnel would eventually lead us to the schoolhouse-slash-tavern. We’d already agreed that he wouldn’t blow up the only sure way out. Even if it meant some of Those Things might escape. Collapsing their crypts so they’d have nowhere to skulk was the number one priority. Blocking the direct passage (again) to Oskari was number two.

“So, uh—do you feel different?”

“Relieved,” Alexander replied.

There wasn’t any point in asking if he was sad. The whole thing was sad. It wasn’t as if Lidia knew what she was getting into when she agreed to become one of Those Things. She thought she'd be getting a fresh start. Basically, the exact opposite of an eternity reliving her trauma.

“Do you still feel compelled to build and burn down the Fire House?”

Alexander shook his head. “Not in the slightest.”

I wondered what the people of Istok would think when the Fire Fair rolled around. Maybe they’d remember the time it happened months earlier than it should have. Chalk it up to random change, and forget about it until the next one. By then, they’d have to accept that the house was never coming back. I wondered what they’d build in its place.

We walked about an hour in silence, which gave me time to think about things like: where was Strauss, and was he all right? Where did Random Father go? Where had That Varis gone with Michael? Did Bells make it to the Drop? Did Adeline make it to the hill, and would she still be waiting by the time we got there? Was Vinny with her?

And where the bloody hell was Gus? He sure as shite wasn’t dead. It wasn’t denial, all right?

I'd have known if he were dead. It’s just one of those things.

“Do you have anything to eat?” Alexander asked.

I rummaged through my satchel and pulled out a giant, bruised apple.

“It’s a start,” he said. “Anything else?”

I shook my head.

“I’ll notify Peter—instruct him to pick us up near the ruins. You'll need rest and a good meal sooner than later. And frankly, so do I. Your father’s bolts are effective.”

Seeing as Those Things don’t eat food, I made a mental note to ask him later where he shops for people.

“What do you mean by notify Peter, and how did you know that man was my father?”

“Peter and I have a telepathic link,” Alexander said.

“All right,” I said. It was weird, but whatever.

“As for Rhydian?” he continued. “I know him. And your mother.”

“All right,” I repeated. “Why are we just talking about this now?”

Alexander kicked up the pace. “Because it didn't matter until now.”

The man had a point. The news might have been interesting, but it didn't change much.

Alexander carried on, "Approximately two decades ago, Emerich Bach was stationed in Istok when Rhydian and your lover’s parents were deployed to help him deal with a threat. The threat was primarily my sister. Obviously, they failed.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Now, afore you start wondering if that’s how Strauss’s parents died, do the math. I wasn’t even born yet, and he’s younger than I am. I, too, kicked up the pace. “Also, could you not call him my lover? It sounds so, uh—”

“Salacious?”

“Aye,” I said. “It sounds salacious.”

“What is he, if not your lover?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve decided he’s not that. And what about my mum? I’m told she was a Barren. Why was she here?”

“Your father smuggled Evelyn into Amalia so they could be together while he worked,” Alexander said. “She was about two-thirds the way through her pregnancy.”

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It was the first time hearing her name. I thought it was pretty. “That’s kind of romantic, isn’t it?”

Alexander picked up the pace. The conversation was putting him in a mood. I could tell.

“What—did you have the hots for my mum or something?”

Alexander stopped a moment, but only long enough to glance over his shoulder.

“Holy hells,” I said. “Did you know who I was straightaway then?”

“Yes.”

“Because I look like her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have the hots for me?”

“No.”

“Well, good,” I said. “That makes what I’m about to say less awkward, but you’ve had a bad day and it might be nice for you to hear. We haven’t known each other for long, but you’ve been more of a father to me than mine has been in twenty-one years.”

“That… is nice to hear.” Alexander paused for another moment, and then picked up the pace again. “To Rhydian’s credit, he loved your mother, and I’m certain if he’d had any choice in the matter, Rhian, he would have been there for you.”

“You reckon? ‘Cause about a minute ago, he tried killing my friend and then left me for dead.”

Alexander shrugged. “We don’t see eye to eye.”

That wasn’t so hard to believe. “All right,” I said. “We both know daddy’s a bit of a dick-head, but what's mummy like?”

“One of a kind. Nothing I could say would do her justice.”

“Did you—“

“No,” he said, and it was a hard no. “We were acquaintances, insofar as I kept her safe from my sister.”

“Right, I get it,” I said. “You were the shadow at her back.”

Confirmed shadow at her back, and we carried on for another hour in silence. I ate my apple at some point, but not a lot else interesting happened apart from running into one of Those Things. ‘Course, neither of us were particularly worried, seeing as he was stuck in the rock-wall. He flailed his one arm about wildly and begged us for help.

Alexander lopped his head, and then there was dust. The end.

So. Many. Heads. “What if that one was less like Lidia and more like you?” I asked. “Look, I’m not judging—I mean, I’m basically a murderer—I’m just trying to understand these fucked up new rules.”

“The majority living in these catacombs would have been my sister’s creations, and if they were more like me, they’d be living more like me, and they'd be pretending to have tea with the others more like me. As for the answer to your real question—yes, there are others out there who do only what’s necessary to survive, and everything else to live their eternities graciously, and prosperously. We are few, and we don’t know for certain what makes us different. Our backgrounds vary—good upbringings, bad upbringings, willing deaths, traumatic deaths. One thing we all share in common is a strong will and the ability to reflect upon our past lives and become better for it in our new lives.”

“All right,” I said. “So, just like any other people.”

Alexander nodded. “Yes, just like.”

“So, uh—last you saw him, did Jack Finnegan say anything? Anything that might give us a clue where he went?”

Alexander chuckled. “You mean Feargus Finlay?”

“You’ve known his real name this whole time, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he said. “But Peter still has no idea.”

The best thing about Alexander’s smile was the way it spread to his eyes. The thing that was missing—the thing I didn’t see in Lidia, or the crazy barman, or Those Things in Istok—was still there. Maybe it was the willpower. Maybe it was the bravery. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact he was the type of man to say nice things about someone who’d just tried to kill him.

Bottom line: Alexander didn’t know anything more about Gus.

----------------------------------------

The schoolhouse-slash-tavern still smelled like death, but it also smelled like ash and burnt wood. Just like Vinny said it would, the tunnel landed us backstage. There wasn’t much left of the of the old building. What was caved in before, was caved in even more, and we were surprised the stage was still intact. The wood was black and ashy. We didn’t want to take our chances standing on it for long, so we climbed down to the main floor—carefully, seeing as the last person who wasn’t careful had a bad time.

The hole was still there, but it was bigger.

The schoolhouse-slash-tavern was everything we imagined, all except for one thing.

By the look on That Varis’s too-tight-ponytail face, she wasn’t expecting us either.

Michael was still half naked, lying on his back in the rubble. Judging by the fact he was breathing, he was either sleeping or unconscious. Strange place for a nap, though.

“What have you done?” Alexander asked, and That Varis scowled.

I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. Maybe it was the fact her eyes had always been a bit lifeless, or that she was generally a piece of work. But there it was: That Varis was one of Those Things and she’d done something to Michael.

Alexander stopped me from running to him.

“Back the fuck off,” That Varis said.

I shot Alexander a look and a promise I'd be good if he let go of my arm.

“What have you done?” Alexander repeated, letting go of my arm.

While he tried making sense of the situation on the outside, I thought back to what I’d missed on the inside. All that time, That Varis might have been acting batshite crazy all on her own. If Lidia wanted to hurt me, she’d had about a thousand chances to make it happen. She wouldn’t have had to send That Varis after me, That One Time in the Murder House. She liked lazing around with a cup of tea, but did she ever drink it? Had I ever seen her eat? I couldn’t remember, but she was always feeling sick. According to her, a side-effect of making a baby with Michael.

That Varis squeezed Michael’s hand. “I won’t let her take him.”

“Lidia is gone,” Alexander said. “She can’t take anything from anyone anymore.”

“Not her.” That Varis pointed her crazy finger in my direction. “Her.”

“Me?" That deserved a chuckle. "The hells have I done to you, Varis, other than not like you very much?”

“You can’t have it all,” That Varis shouted. Then she took a few deep breaths, and lowered her voice. “While the rest of us sacrificed any semblance of a normal life, you get away with running around with your friends, doing whatever you want, and whoever you want. Of course I know about the half-breed. Let’s face it, Rhian, we all know about the half-breed. And Michael? He acts like you invented the alphabet, which is hilarious. You can’t even read.”

“O… kay,” I said. The whole thing was treading too far into villain speech territory and I wasn’t in the mood. “First of all, it’s about making choices. You chose to conform. I didn’t. Not my problem. Second of all, if you think Michael’s got a torch in his pocket for me, you’re wrong. We tried kissing once after having too much to drink. It went on about half a second afore we agreed it was like licking a cardboard box. The point is, Varis, if you want Michael to say nice things about you, try being a nice person.”

“Rhian,” Alexander said. “Her feelings are amplified. Without guidance, she—“

That Varis lunged at me, reaching for one of the short swords strapped to her back. I dodged out of the way while Alexander put Intrepi-what-the-bloody-ever to work, swiping her clean across the neck. Her surprised-looking head fell to the floor about thirty seconds afore the rest of her body. The whole thing was unfortunate, and it was bloody, and I was tired of seeing people’s heads getting lopped off.

I rushed to Michael’s side. He was still unresponsive, even after tapping his cheeks a few times.

“What’s the matter with him?”

Alexander set the weapon down, and crouched beside us. He lifted Michael’s eyelids one at a time, and then pressed his hands to his chest for a minute. And then two minutes, and three minutes, and I was getting impatient. I hoped it’d be like that time in the forest—the time he healed Teeth. But this time, nothing changed other than the colour of Alexander's beard from brown to grey.

“I believe she was trying to turn him.”

“Good,” I said. “That means she failed, so how do we fix it?”

Alexander stared at Michael for about six hours.

“I... I don’t have the faintest idea.”

“Well, at least we found him,” I said.

“Yes, at least there’s that,” Alexander agreed. “Peter should be here shortly.”

Look, it wouldn’t do any good thinking too hard about what was wrong with Michael. I'll remind, I'm not a bloody doctor. Wondering whether we could save his life wouldn’t save his life. There was only one thing we knew for sure: worrying about him in the burned down ruins of a schoolhouse-slash-tavern wasn’t going to cure him.

Two people down, five to go.

We were off to a terrible start.