Page 68 of Anorthic Anarchy

I imagine buying farmland there in Belize and growing a garden. Me and Bert living it up and growing mangoes and cashews. She’ll twirl in pretty pink dresses, and we’ll have tea every afternoon, making sure to never miss a sunset.

What I don’t picture is my husband. Because if I think about him and his wanton need for revenge, the one tear turns to many. I can’t make him a good man. He never will be. But my longing for him could be my downfall. His definition ofloveseems so immature. It’s possessive and selfish. I don’t think he’s capable of loving me or our child.

The pain sears through my heart. I wish he’d chosen me. Or, better, that he’d chosen the people of this city to defend. But that’s too much. I’m sure he’s worried right now, thinking of where his vengeance baby is. I thought I moved past being a womb to him, but I guess not.

Rubbing my belly, I think the words to Bert, so I don’t speak and use up too much oxygen.You’re not a captive weapon, Liberty. You’ll be free.

So if consort Strauss cannot save these people...

I guess it’s up to me.

It’s been probably twenty hours without food or water. Obviously, I need those. And more air. Really, this place is much nicer than the crate. No splinters and a bonus cushy silk pillow beneath my neck.

A small chuckle trickles from my lungs. They really have no idea who they’re messing with. Small spaces, darkness, loneliness, rape, betrayal, pain, despair…

Nothingcan break me.

I am the angel of death. All I need is a butcher knife.

My heart skips a beat when the coffin jolts, the familiar humming deafening my ears. The dirt must not have been heavy on top because it slides away easily, the waterfall of its departure a relief.

Just as I thought… They need to keepmealive. Strauss was right.

For several hours, I wondered aboutwhythey asked me togive themthe child… Did they mean to end the pregnancy? Did they mean to go through with the pregnancy and then give them my daughter?

Why ask mypermission?

Just like when I finally understood the consort, I know.

I have the power.

As the lid lifts, crisp wind flows into my lungs like a vacuum, and suddenly my brain becomes less fuzzy. Thoughts are clear. The light shines so bright, it’s blinding. A white winter sky streaked with gray clouds greets my face as streams of sunshine warm my cheeks.

I’m weak. Hungry, cold, and tired.Please, Bert. You’re strong. Stay in there.

A few men lift me out. One carries me back toward the building. After a few blinks, I scan the area, and my stomach knots at the vision around me.

I’m in a neighborhood. A plain, normal looking suburbia. The house is just like all the others surrounding it, except the van that must have brought me here is parked on the grass. Brick monstrosities lie so close together they could be joined. Almost all of the yards have four-foot fences to outline their faux plots. Ones with perfectly cut grass and landscaping.

Did no one see the gravesite in the middle of this one?

It’s genius, actually. Hiding in plain sight. My husband likely has no clue where to look for me.

The breeze shifts and a strong smell of burning sulfur rears over to us as the man sways his hips to the back door. A very faint sound of sirens blares in waves, then gets louder. Craning my neck above the two-story rooftops, I see it…

It’s not grayclouds…

The sky is on fire.

Gusts of billowy musk float like raging ocean waves across the tops of the roofs, and more seeps closer. As my ears adjust, I hear screaming, screeching, terrorized yells echoing between the bricks from the street.

My captor grips me tighter as another opens the door and leads us into a basement. Plain box rooms line the hallway we enter. It’s completely empty here, like a laundering front for a mafia that they have in the movies. Except this is a housewife’s dream.

As we climb the wooden steps, the man sets me down in a hall leading toward a large, open living room. Men in tuxedos and women in capes with owl masks crowd the area. At least, I assume them to be Herodius and Clavius from my studies.

Their eyes stare me down with veneration. And that is the reason I won’t die like my brother. Because theyneedme and because I have Bert.

My throat tightens, thinking of Vincente. Of the little boy who could have been so much. The consort’s determination and tenacity. If only he used his forces for good instead of evil. I think I could love him.

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