Motionless.
Waiting.
Seannacrouched before the glowing embers of the bonfire. She’d found the place where she’d laid her stone. Empty now. She cursed Lance. Nasty tricks were fine, but this was outright cruelty.
She reached into her pocket for the stone. When she pulled out snips of ivy instead, her temper sparked anew.Goddamnhim. When he’d shown up, she’d been cutting ivy for the rite of Eiddiorwg Dalen.
Snip ten pieces of ivy on Nos Galan Gaeaf, throw away nine, and sleep with the tenth under her pillow. That would grant Seanna the gift of prophetic dreams. The gift of the sight. Rose might claim that wasn’t how she got hers, but her aunt had to be lying. Trying to keep her gift all to herself.
Seanna threw the ivy aside. Too late now. She’d have to wait for next year. All because of Lance.
She returned her stone to its place and settled back on her haunches to survey the ring of rocks. She had to squint to make out names, and she was about to give up when the clouds veiling the moon thinned and its glow lit the street.
Another scan of the stones. Then a smile as her fingertips touched down on the one marked with Lance’s name.
To her left, she heard what sounded like a sudden gasp. She squinted toward the sound. It seemed to come from the walkway by the bank, but she couldn’t see anything.
She reached again for Lance’s stone. Her fingers wrapped around it. A shriek rent the air, and she stumbled, falling flat on her ass. Then a screech, this one cut short, the cry of some animal seized by a predator.
Seanna peered toward the walkway. She’d seen an owl earlier by the playground. As she caught the faint but sickening crunch of bone, she shuddered. Definitely the owl.
She rose, pocketing Lance’s stone. Then she set out for home, taking the long way around, letting the crunching of bone and ripping of flesh fade behind her.
Last Stand
If you had to make a last stand for the survival of your race, Monica supposed there were worse places to do it. As she gazed out over the fort walls, she could imagine fields of green and gold, corn stalks swaying in the breeze.
How long had it been since she’d tasted corn? Monica closed her eyes and remembered August backyard barbecues, the smell of ribs and burgers on the grill, the chill of an icy beer can as Jim pressed it to her back, the sound of Lily’s laughter as she darted past, chasing the other children with water balloons.
Monica opened her eyes and looked out at the scorched fields. She’d been the one who’d given the order to set the blaze, but there hadn’t been corn in them, not for years. Only barren fields of grass and weeds that could hide the enemy, best put to the torch.
“Commander,” a voice said behind her.
She turned and a pimply youth snapped his heels together and saluted. The newer ones did that sometimes, and she’d stopped trying to break them of the habit. They needed to believe they were in a proper army, with proper rules, even if they’d never worn a uniform before. It was what kept them going, let them believe they could actually win this war.
“Hendrix just radioed,” the youth said. “He’s bringing in the latest group of prisoners.”
Monica nodded and followed him off the ramparts. They passed two teenage girls in scout uniforms who nodded, gazes down as they murmured polite greetings. Monica hid a smile, thinking that, once upon a time, she’d have killed to get that respect from girls their age, back when she’d stood at the front of a classroom.
She thought about all the kids she’d taught. Wondered where they were now, how many were Others, how many were dead… Too many in the last category, she was sure. What would they think, seeing their chemistry teacher leading the last band of resistance fighters? Could they ever imagine it? She couldn’t imagine it herself some days.
As she followed the youth into the fort, Gareth swung out from the shadows. He fell into step beside her, his left foot scraping the floor—a broken leg that never healed quite right.
Before he could say a word, she lifted her hand.
“Objection noted, Lieutenant.”
“I didn’t say a word, Commander,” he said.
“You don’t need to. You heard we’re bringing in a fresh lot, and you’re going to tell me—again—that we can’t handle more prisoners. The stockade is overcrowded. We’re wasting manpower guarding them. We’re wasting doctors caring for them. We should take them out into the field, kill them and leave the corpses on spikes for the Others to see.”
“I don’t believe I’ve suggested that last part. Brilliant idea, though. I’ll send a troop to find the wood for the poles?—”
She shot him a look. He only grinned.
“We aren’t animals, Lieutenant,” she said. “We don’t stoop to their level.”
Of course he knew she’d say that, as well as she knew his complaint. Gareth just liked to voice his opinion. Loudly andfrequently. She’d answered only for the sake of the new recruit leading them.
