The monster’s eyes swirl with many shades of red, from a rich almost-black to a bright flash that burns yellow. When it speaks, I see the jaw moving, but can’t make out a mouth behind those disgusting folds.
“Bishop, look at you,” the monster says. “Already with a weapon in your hand. Why am I not surprised? And what did you smear all over your body? You’re so frightening.”
A man’s condescending voice delivered in a whispering hiss, the sound of dust sliding across stone. It makes my skin crawl. Whatever this monster is, every ounce of my body screams that it should not exist.
Bishop glances at me. I see the fear and doubt in his eyes. If there was something to attack, he would attack it. Since there is not, he tilts his head toward the pedestal.
He thinks I should do the talking.
I stand up straight and try to look like a leader.
“How did you know Bishop’s name?”
The black thing’s head bobs a little. It makes a new sound, a sound like two bones scraping together. Is that…laughter?
“Even though I can’t see as well as I used to, there’s no mistaking his muscular body,” it says. “And the Bishop I know is seldom without a weapon. Some things never change. Never-never-never.”
A hand on my shoulder. Not one of support or threat, but to gently guide me aside, just enough for someone to lean in. It’s Aramovsky.
“Are you a god?” he asks the monster.
The monster stares for a moment. “I do not recognize you. What is your name?”
“I am Aramovsky.”
Wrinkled, withered shoulders shake, and again I hear that sound of scraping bone—the monster is laughing.
“Aramovskeee, way up in a tree,” it says. “I’m surprised you made it. Of course a double-ring would assume I am a god a god I am. I suppose I do have the power over life and death. By definition, therefore and wherefore, the answer is yes.”
I don’t know what a god is, exactly, but if gods do exist, they don’t look like this thing.
Aramovsky’s eyes are wet and shining. He is afraid, but also enthralled—he doesn’t see the threat that Bishop and I see.
I shake the tall boy’s hand off my shoulder, then step forward.
“You know Bishop,” I say to the monster. “And you know Aramovsky. Who are you?”
“Who am I? A god with a cod.”
He is playing with us.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “You are no more a god than I am.”
The red eyes flicker and swirl. “I do not recognize you, girl. What is your name?”
“Yours first.”
The wrinkled thing laughs. I want to drive my spear right through its face.
“I am Brewer,” he says.
Brewer. Like the boy in our coffin room. Could they be related?
“I told you my name, girl,” it says. “Now, what is yours?”
I stand a little straighter. “My name is Em.”
The red eyes swirl faster. “Em? There is no Em in the command caste.”
“I am the leader,” I say. “We voted on it.”
“A vote? How interesting.”
The red eyes seem to look me up and down, then lock in on my forehead.
“You’re a circle?” He speaks that word with utter disbelief.
I say nothing. The monster stares at me for a long moment. I stare back, not knowing what else to do.
It makes a noise that might be a cough: a dry, rattling thing that pulls the narrow shoulders closer together. When that passes, the monster makes grunting sounds, like it’s trying to clear a throat that we can’t see.
Finally, it seems to recover. Its red eyes slowly swirl.
“I don’t know anyone named Em,” it says. “That doesn’t seem possible, unless…”
He looks off to his right. His attention is elsewhere for a moment, then the eyes snap back to me.
“Em? As in the letter M?”
How do I respond? Do I lie, like O’Malley would? I don’t know that a lie helps us any more than the truth, so I nod.
The monster leans closer.
“Are you…Savage?” His voice, full of both awe and horror.
Like the monster in the Garden, this one seems to know me. It is all I can do to contain my hope and excitement.
I nod again. “You know who I am?”
The monster leans away.
“I can’t believe it,” it says. “Yes, I know who you are, little circle. I know all too well. You are the person who murdered me.”
THIRTY-THREE
This creature doesn’t know what’s real. He’s alive, he’s talking to me, but he thinks I killed him?
“Little Savage,” the monster says. “You seem so strong, so healthy.” His tone has changed—loathing drips from every word. “Do you feel hot, Em? A fever cleaver in your head, perhaps?”
Even if I was sick, I wouldn’t tell him, I wouldn’t show him any weakness.
“I feel fine.”
The monster sighs. “It’s been so long since the husks were serviced, I shouldn’t be surprised. The needly wheedly must be jammed, much like I am.”
Needly wheedly? Does he mean needle? The one that stabbed me? How could he know about that, unless…