Page 42 of Fable for the End of the World

I expect her to flinch, but she doesn’t. We’re both still for what feels like a very long time.

The rain grows almost hopelessly heavier, and the Angel clenches her jaw. I hesitate for just a few more seconds, and then I haul us forward again.

By the grace of some nameless—and otherwise mostly indifferent—god, I spot a cave up ahead, through the unforgiving sheets of rain. As we approach, I realize thatcaveis probably a little generous. It’s just an outcropping of rock, offering only a sliver of shelter. But I’ll take even the most pathetic miracle.

The sight seems to give the Angel a sudden surge of energy. I’ve been more or less dragging her, but now she takes deliberate, if shaky, footsteps. When we reach the cave, I give it only the most cursory check for things that might be hiding themselves in the dark, and then we both collapse onto the ground.

The Angel doesn’t even bother pushing herself into a sitting position. Instead she just curls up, arms under her head in a makeshift pillow, her long, lithe body going limp. When we were standing it was easy to see she was taller than me by a few inches, but folded like this, she looks tiny. Fragile.

Her lashes flutter. The rain is falling in relentless gouts, and she shivers. I pull my knees to my chest, unsure what to do, my vision blurring with exhaustion.

And then I hear it. Her voice, so faint that the words barely register over the sound of the rushing rain.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

She must be delirious with lack of sleep. I must be, too, because I find myself whispering back, “What’s your name?”

“Melinoë.”

“Melinoë,” I repeat. The four syllables dance lightly on my tongue. “I’m Inesa.”

“I know,” she says.

And then she’s gone.

Sixteen

Melinoë

My dreams are languid and strange, darkness slurring aroundme like soiled water. I dream that I’m sinking into a sandpit, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, while a crowd gathers around me and watches. Some of them take photos with their tablets. They jostle and whisper to one another, eyes alight with perverse glee. Azrael is among them.

Please, I try to say, but the words won’t come out.Save me, please, get me out of here.

The crowd just titters and murmurs. And Azrael looks on, gaze cool. My limbs are glued in place. I know it’s a dream because I’m crying, and I haven’t been able to do that since I was a child. They’re silent, salt-laced tears that taste like blood when they reach my lips.

The Lamb is in my dreams, too. A different dream, this time. We’re on the ground in the woods, kneeling face-to-face. I can feel the heavy humidity of the air and the cold, damp leaf pulp beneathus, the water seeping through the fabric of my hunting suit. It all feels real.

She leans forward, until our foreheads are nearly touching, her nose a breath away from mine. The Lamb. Inesa. Her earth-colored eyes gleam, almost giddily, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a smile.

I try to speak, but the words curdle in my throat again.

In a flash, she’s on her feet, bounding into the trees. But it’s not a fearful flight. And she doesn’t go far. She hangs along the edge of the clearing, peeking her head out from behind one of the trees. Her smile widens, as if beckoning me to join her playful chase.

And I want to. My chest burns with how much I want to. But when I rise to stagger toward her, the forest floor falls out from under me. The whole dream shatters like glass.

Seventeen

Inesa

In sleep, it’s hard to think of her as dangerous. Hard to recall howpainfully her hands circled my throat. Hard to remind myself to be afraid.

Even with the bruise darkening her temple and the bloodless pall of her face, she’s beautiful. I know that the Angels are supposed to be, but it’s still impossible not to notice. The perfect bow of her mouth, the high, taut cheekbones, the brows and lashes surprisingly dark for someone with such pale hair. It falls nearly to her waist, a blond more silver than gold.

My fingers inch across the ground. I want to touch just the ends of it, to see if it’s as soft as it looks, but I stop myself. Exhaustion is clearly doing strange things to my brain.

I rub my face with my cold hands, trying to enliven my muscles. My thoughts are racing. I should look for dry wood to start a fire. Who knows if there are more Wends out there. I should take her rifle while she’s sleeping and run. Find Luka. I should look for the car with all our gear. I should at least look for clean water,because my throat is as dry as sandpaper and my tongue feels huge and heavy in my mouth.

I should kill her.

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