Page 37 of Fable for the End of the World

Her fingers are still scrabbling at the gun, panic in her rich green-brown eyes. “We have to get out of here.”

I just blink, puzzled by her use of the plural.

“The Wends,” she says. “They’re coming.”

I’m so baffled all I can do is echo, “The Wends?”

“Yes.” Her pitch rises. “They’ll kill us. Kill us and eat us.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. But the fear in her voice is obvious, and my heart skips its beats.

“Go, then,” I say. I almost ask:Why are you bothering with me?

The sound of her tracker flutters in my ear. For a brief moment I entertain the hope that the tracker is still online, that the cameras will find me now. But when I listen, I still hear nothing. Just the link between whatever’s left of my comms system and the pulsing chip in her throat. The Lamb swallows.

“I can’t do it,” she whispers.

“Just pull the trigger. I was lying before. You don’t have to cock it.”

I don’t know what a Wend is, but I’d rather die cleanly with a bullet to the brain than be torn to pieces and eaten.

“No, I mean...” She draws in a shaking breath. “I can’t run anymore. They’re too fast. There are too many of them.”

My sluggish brain finally catches on to the fact that she’s by herself. I stay silent for a moment, waiting for her brother to burst through the trees, but he doesn’t. The Lamb is just as alone as I am. And judging from the tears in her eyes, her ripped jacket andblood-streaked face, I can guess that their parting wasn’t peaceful.

“They’re coming,” she goes on hoarsely. “Can you—can you smell them?”

My sense of smell is tainted by the iron tinge of blood on my tongue and the leftover bile in my throat. With one hand still braced on the tree trunk, I push myself up to a standing position. I reach out my other arm, even as it shakes.

“Give me the rifle,” I say.

At once, her eyes harden. She clutches the gun to her chest.

“Listen.” I can’t exactly blame her for not trusting me, so I soften my voice. “You don’t know how to use it. But I do. I’ll kill the... the Wends. If you help me get somewhere safe.”

Every atom in my body resists using the wordhelp. The Lamb doesn’t move. Her gaze is reproachful.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I say.

And I’m not. The realization comes to me at the same time I say it aloud. I can’t kill her, not now, not yet. Idoneed her help. I can barely walk on my own. But more important, the cameras are gone. If I kill her off-screen, it won’t count. Azrael will mark it as a failure. After all, what’s the point of a Gauntlet without the spectacle?

I have to keep her alive until I can make sure the cameras are on and the world is watching. Then I’ll slit her throat or bury a bullet in her brain. I’ll give her the most lurid death I can imagine. It’ll play over and over again, on every holoscreen in New Amsterdam. They’ll forget her name, maybe even mine, too, but they’ll remember the arc of my blade and the spray of her blood.

The Lamb’s eyes waver. Her body is tensed, shoulders raised, but I can sense the exhaustion beneath her stiff posture.

“I won’t kill you,” I say again. I stretch out my hand even farther, fingers reaching. “I promise.”

Moments pass, like drops of rain from damp leaves. The wind picks up, making her dark hair ripple around her face.

Then, without a word, she reaches toward me. She joins our hands and laces our fingers. And then she slides the rifle into my arms.

Thirteen

Inesa

The Angel’s hand is as cold as naked bone. There’s no warmth atall radiating through her black gloves. As soon as she has the rifle, she lets go of me and slings the gun over her shoulder. But her movements are jerky, sluggish. Nothing like the fluid way she threw her knife, pinning Luka to the tree, or the way she landed on the car like a mountain cat dropping onto its prey.

She could be pretending. Playing at weakness so that when I turn my back, she can put a bullet through my heart. The possibility doesn’t escape me. But I’ve weighed the risks. Run through it all in my mind. Without Luka, I don’t stand a chance against the Wends. I can’t allow myself to imagine him dead. If I do, I’ll crumble.

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