The boy tilted his head.
“It’s crazy. It’s really, really crazy.”
“I don’t care if it’s crazy as long as it works,” the boy said.
The wind knew what the boy was thinking. If they didn’t stop this horror, it would kill everyone. Not even the Clarks would survive.
“It’ll work,” the trickster said. Then he amended, “I think it’ll work. It might backfire.”
The boy smiled. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
The trickster nodded. He pulled the boy upright and gripped his arm. “Hold it off. When you see a terrifying monster headed your way, don’t shoot. It’s the reinforcements.”
At those reassuring words, the trickster ripped through the boy’s darkness and sprinted into the night.
87
“Celia!” The musician gripped the citrus and pearl dust scented woman’s arms and yanked her to her feet.
“Kýon!” she grabbed for her dog, but the musician tugged her away. “Leave the stupid thing. We’ve got problems.”
She tugged free of her brother and scooped the dog up, wrapping it safely in her arms. They sprinted out of the park, dodging pedestrians and shoving past people staring up at the bulbous black clouds swarming the skyscrapers.
“It’s Luvic,” the musician said, flinging his hand in the air for a taxi. “He’s fighting a monster the Clarks released. It’s?—”
“It’s going to devour the city,” the woman said, realization striking. Her already pale face lost its remaining pink.
A violent thunder shook the glass of the building behind them. Her puppy shivered in her arms, buried its head under her shoulder, then yipped furiously at another roar of thunder.
“What were they thinking?” she whispered. Then, “What is he thinking? He’ll be killed!”
The musician nodded. “Glad you caught on. It’s come down to it, Lia. Are we saving him? Are we fighting with him? We could run, or we could?—”
She twisted her hand, and a sleek black motorcycle appeared. “A taxi isn’t fast enough.”
The musician smiled. It was the melancholy, soulful, stripped-bare smile that made a being’s heart ache. “Even if the Bard realizes we’re alive?”
“Ragnor Bard. Our little brother is fighting—probably to the death—to save the city from a monster. Do you even have to ask?”
“I just did.”
She smiled, and the little white fluff of a puppy squirmed in her arms, then it poked its head out and barked again.
“My puppy isn’t afraid.”
“Neither am I.”
“Then . . .”
“He’s going to die. Either today or as a jackaltooth. Maybe it’d be better if it was today.”
The wind knew the truth of the musician’s words. Every human was meant to die. A battle was just one of many ways, and in some ways, it was better. A man came into battle prepared for death, closer to God than if he’d died slipping on ice or choking on a bone. Battle or war didn’t increase death. All humans died—war only sped it along.
Humans were always standing on the cliff of eternity, one shove away from death. War only made them remember their toes were hanging over the edge.
