Footsteps clomped toward us down the hall, and I ran through my story again, looking for any last minute ways to polish it, to craft the perfect lie that would help ingratiate us into his community, to give us the time to get to know him, to find his weaknesses, to stay under his radar until the perfect time to strike.
A short, dark man walked into the room. He was balding on top, with a wispy gray mullet behind his ears. Mid fifties, I guessed, with skin and features that suggested Middle Eastern heritage. He smiled when he saw us, not like the cultists did, but a broad, genuine smile that seemed almost shocking after a day full of pale imitations. “My name is Christopher,” he said, and his voice was thin but firm. “Welcome to the Spirit of Light. I understand you’re looking for Sister Kara?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Brooke spoke first. “Actually we’re looking for you,” she said. “It’s been a long time, Yashodh.”
I tensed, moving my hand closer to the gun magazine. What was she doing?
Christopher blinked in surprise, then took a step back and eyed us suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“That’s the trouble with these bodies,” said Brooke. “No one ever recognizes me.” She dropped her backpack to the floor, and spread her arms slightly, presenting herself like an old friend. “It’s me: Hulla. I’m Nobody.”
4
Yashodh watched us warily.
My hand itched to lunge for the gun.
“Brother Stan,” said Yashodh. “Can you help get the rest of the truck unloaded?”
“Of course,” said Brother Stan, walking past him toward the door. I stepped to the side, circling slightly so that he never blocked my view of Yashodh. I don’t know what prompted Brooke to spill our secrets like that, but I wanted to be ready if it all went to hell. Brother Stan walked outside and off the porch, and the door banged closed behind him.
“Who are you with?” asked Yashodh softly.
“With each other,” said Nobody.
“I mean which side,” said Yashodh. “Rack’s trying to raise an army. Are you here to press me into it?”
“No,” I said quickly. If he used the word “press,” then he didn’t want to join the Withered army at all; we needed to seem like allies. “We’re trying to stay out of the whole thing, like you.”
Yashodh studied me a moment, then looked back at Nobody. “Who’s he?”
“He’s mine,” said Nobody, “and you don’t touch him.”
“Fair enough,” said Yashodh. “And you won’t touch any of mine? We haven’t had a death here in decades; I don’t want to have to explain one of your suicides the next time the police come through for an inspection.”
“No fuss from either side,” said Nobody. “We just want to talk.”
Yashodh paused again, watching us, until at last he nodded. “I have a private room. We can talk in there.”
He led us through the house, past a sitting room full of a dozen or so cultists singing quietly to themselves. They beamed when they saw him, whispering his name in a sibilant chorus: “Christopher Christopher Christopher Christopher.” He slowed and gestured to them but didn’t stop, leading us up the stairs to a small office with an old kitchen table for a desk. The wooden chairs were mismatched, and the carpet was a spiral pattern woven from old scraps and rags. He closed the door behind us and sat with a heavy sigh.
“I knew it was only a matter of time,” he said. “It was bad enough before Fort Bruce, but after…” He shook his head. “It’s a horrible thing, to look at a massacre like that and not be able to tell who won.”
“Twenty-three humans dead,” I said.
“And not a word from Rack since,” said Yashodh. “If that was a victory for the Withered, their recruitment efforts would have stepped up, not down.”
“Did he come to you?” asked Nobody.
“Not yet,” said Yashodh. “But I have friends who’ve sent me word of his plans. Though even them I haven’t heard from lately.”
“Nashuja,” I said, venturing a guess. Nashuja we had killed last month, she was a grizzled woman who made her living as a long-haul trucker. She picked up hitchhikers and killed them in empty rest stops, cracking open their bones and sucking out the marrow, crying for the mothers who would never see their children again.
Yashodh shook his head. “Dag,” he said. We had killed Dag four months earlier. “I haven’t heard from Nashuja in … hundreds of years at least. I didn’t know she kept in contact with anyone.”
“Kanta found her a few years ago,” said Nobody. “I worked with him before he died.”
“Kanta was on Rack’s side,” said Yashodh, and his voice sounded tired. “He wanted to get us all together, like the old days—the god emperors come back at last.” He gestured around his office. “This is where we are today. This is what we are. Not gods anymore, just…” He shook his head. “They want to recruit me? They want this for their kingdom? Forty-six walking coma patients, smart enough to pull weeds and sew a few shirts and…” he gestured in the air, searching for words, “… wave at each other in the room downstairs? I’d be useless in a war.”