Page 47 of Fable for the End of the World

“Gauntlets aren’t supposed to last longer than a few days. The audience would lose interest.”

“Well, it’s very generous of you and Azrael to think about the interests of the audience.”

The coldness of my voice surprises me, as does the angry knot that forms in my belly. With her saving my life, limping around so pitifully, talking to me like a human being—it’s been easy to forget that we’re not the same. She grew up in glass skyscrapers and climate-controlled domes, eating as much or as little as she pleased, never worrying about what will happen when the water table rises too high or the last deer is finally dead.

Melinoë’s shoulders rise and her gaze grows hard. “Caerus makes the rules. Not me.”

“Well, you and your kind benefit from those rules a hell of a lot more than we do.”

I don’t know how Dad’s words, in his exact tone, have snuck into my mouth.

Melinoë doesn’t reply. The utter blackness of her stare reminds me of that first night, when she landed on the hood of the car. There was nothing behind her eyes then, not even hate, just the icy, inhuman determination to complete her mission.

But because I never seem to know when to just shut up, I rush on: “You’re lucky you were born inside the City instead of out. That’s it. Luck. Or else you’d be the one staring down the barrel of a gun.”

She blinks. I realize for the first time how rarely she does. Maybe it’s a quirk of the prosthetic, or one of her other technologically augmented features. Flat-voiced, she says, “You’re the one holding the knife.”

I’d almost forgotten. Instinctively, I tighten my grip on the handle.

For the first time, I consider another reason to kill her. One driven by the righteous anger that always burned so brightly and fiercely within Dad, the anger I could never quite bring myself to feel. I think I’m finally starting to.

If I did kill her, I’d be a hero among the Outliers, that’s for certain. Dad, wherever he is—if he managed to see it—would be proud. But no matter how easy it is to imagine—the slash of the blade, the bright red spout of blood—I can’t make myself lunge for her.

Weak. This is why Mom will always choose Luka over me. I’ll never have the guts to just drive the knife home. I’ve had plenty of experience with dead things, but only to mend them. To make them look and feel alive again.

Once I’ve had the thought, the words just leap out of my mouth.

“How old were you? The first time?”

She doesn’t ask me to clarify. Her gaze doesn’t even shift as she replies, “Fifteen.”

The same age Luka was when he started hunting on his own. I remember the first kill he ever brought to me. A fawn, spindly legged, too green to recognize the scent of a predator and too slow to get away. I looked up taxidermy instructions on the internet. Bought the supplies I’d need. But when it came to the point where the deer was lying across the table and I was standing over it with my carving knife in hand, my gorge rose and I vomited.

“Who was it?” I ask.

“A boy,” Melinoë replies.

I just blink at her, feeling that knot of righteous fury tighten in my belly again. “That’s it? That’s all you can say?”

“We’re not supposed to remember.”

“What does that mean?”

Finally, a flicker ofsomethingin her gaze. Not anger. Not grief. Not even a bit of reproach. It’s a strange look of longing, and it seems so out of place, I’m certain I imagined it. And then, as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone again.

“It makes it easier,” she says. “If people had a choice, everyone would choose not to feel.”

Revulsion. That’s the most powerful emotion that rises in me. I think I can see Luka’s side now, understand what he feels when he looks at the mutated animals, the disgust that makes his lip curl. Ugly things that outcompete their weaker counterparts. Even the deer are growing sharp teeth.

“Well,” I say at last, “you’re lucky that I don’t get to choose not to feel. Or else you’d be dead already.”

A beat of silence. I think I see her mouth quiver.

“I suppose so.”

So here we are, hating each other, repulsed by each other, both standing to gain from the other’s demise. And yet—I owe her my life. And she owes me hers.

Debt. Every Outlier knows how dangerous it is. But in Esopus Creek, it’s also our only hope. The thing that’s keeping us alive but also killing us slowly.

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