Page 43 of Fable for the End of the World

The thought slips into my mind so easily, like a key into its lock. The rifle lies beside Melinoë’s sleeping body, mere inches from my fingertips. Now that I’ve watched her use it, I know how easy it is. Brace. Aim. Fire. I could do it.

There’s also the knife. Her knife, which Luka passed to me and I slipped inside my boot. I withdraw it now, turning it over in trembling hands. It’s lighter than the knives I use in the shop and narrower than Dad’s buck knife, the one that Luka carries with him when he hunts. The blade is sharpened to a fine and deadly point. Knives I know intimately, and this one looks both sleek and brutal. Like her.

I grip the handle and shift my body slightly so I’m crouching over her. The blade hovers above her throat. I imagine the cut, the gush of blood. If people bleed as much as animals do, the ground would be soaked with it, my hands covered, her black suit turned blacker. I imagine her eyelids flying open in shock. Her body writhing in the dirt. Her stare glassy as the blood drains into the earth.

The thought turns my stomach into an icy pit. I hurl the knife away from me. It skids across the ground and lands at the very edge of the cave mouth, blade glinting cruelly.

I’m not a murderer. I’m certainly not an executioner. Because that’s what it would be—an execution, cold and detached. They say the Angels aren’t human, but she looks perfectly human to me now. And I can’t force myself to believe that slitting someone’s throat intheir sleep is an act of survival. I’d like to think even Dad would balk at that. Luka did. He could have shot her or stabbed her, guaranteeing her death. But he’s not a murderer, either.

I curl my fingers into fists. I wonder whether the Angel would hesitate, if I was the one sleeping defenselessly beside her. When she was fighting the Wends, she had a thousand chances to turn her gun on me. Or she could have let them kill me. It would have been easier than saving my life.

My head is throbbing. My exhaustion is like black water closing over my head. In the end, the choice is really no choice at all, because my body overrides my brain. I slump over onto the ground, my vision filmy and gray.

The one thing I make sure to do before sleep overcomes me is to lie down facing Melinoë. I place my hand gently against her arm, so that if she wakes up, her movement will jostle me awake, too. That’s all I can manage before my eyelids slide shut and I drown.

Eighteen

Melinoë

I wake slowly. Excruciatingly. My eyelids are weighted with leadand every muscle in my body is aching. If I really was a machine, like the Outliers apparently believe, I would be some long-defunct model, dusted off and powered on for the first time in years.

I blink away the film of sleep and look around. It’s bright—brighter than I’ve ever seen it in these woods. Sunlight falls gently through the patchwork of leaves and branches, a deep, pure gold, as if the sky above is cloudless. A cloudless sky in New Amsterdam? Maybe I am still dreaming.

My memory returns to me in increments: the Wends with their rotting gray skin and slavering mouths. The Lamb bracing her arm around my waist, holding me upright. Carrying me. Helping me into the cave. The last thing I remember is my face dive into the dirt.

The Lamb. My eyes open fully and I see her sleeping body next to mine. Her knees are pulled up to her chest and one arm is pillowed beneath her head. Her other arm is stretched out, and herfingertips are—just barely—brushing my arm.

My heart jumps into my throat. I’m sure she didn’t mean to touch me. She was probably tossing and turning in her sleep. But the way she’s reaching out feels intentional, fingers splayed so they’re almost grasping me. Almost.

I want to pull away, but I don’t. Instead, I keep my body still and slow my breathing. Rainwater drips from the cave overhang, bright and delicate as beads of dew. A band of sunlight stripes across her face, illuminating the scattered freckles on the bridge of her nose, her long, thick, dark lashes. Her brows are full, with a canny sort of arch that makes her look playful, even in sleep.

It recalls my hazy dream: her peeking out at me from behind the tree, teasing smile on her face. Blood rushes to my cheeks. I jerk my arm against my chest and push myself into a sitting position.

Her eyes fly open instantly. She scrambles backward, away from me, to the opposite side of the cave. Then she stops and draws a breath. We stare at each other, unblinking.

A swallow ticks in her throat. The bruises I left are even more vicious-looking in the light, purple and lurid.

“Just give me a head start,” she says at last. Her voice is hoarse.

“What?”

“Before you start hunting me again.”

Oh.I push myself up onto my knees. “I’m not going to chase you.”

She stiffens. Her hand searches the leaves, and her knuckles whiten as she takes hold of something. The handle of a knife.Myknife.

“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, I’m not going to kill you.”

Her brow creases with confusion. “But you have to.”

My rifle is right between us, just out of my reach. I could lunge forward and grab it, but she already has the knife, and she would be faster. My body still feels sluggish, my instincts dulled. I don’t think I could chase her even if I wanted to.

Slowly, she draws the knife upward, until the hilt is pressed against her chest, blade pointed out. She lets out a trembling breath.

“So kill me, then,” I say. “Why don’t you?”

“I don’t want to.” She swallows again, hard. “I don’t want to be a murderer.”

---