Page 87 of Fable for the End of the World

“I knew you were weak,” she says, lips stretched into a wide, crowing smile. “Azrael should have sent me instead.”

My first shot is wasted. I’m still clumsy with shock, and the bullet sails over her shoulder.

She lunges forward, grabbing me around the middle. It knocks the breath from my lungs and I barely manage to stay standing. She lands one decisive blow to my forehead and my vision flickers with stars. Half-blind, I claw back at her, but Lethe grasps me by my hair and pain sears through my scalp.

As I’m bent over like that, she knees me hard in the stomach. Once. Twice. I cough, blood spurting from my mouth onto thefrost. My body is as floppy as a rag doll’s. With almost impossible dexterity, Lethe turns me over and pins me to the ground. Her expression is resplendent with pride.

I don’t know why she doesn’t just shoot me. One bullet to the temple and it will all be over. But the rifle is my weapon. Lethe prefers a more intimate form of violence.

And, besides, this is still a show. Azrael wants the most dramatic finale possible.

Pressing down on my throat with one hand, Lethe removes a knife from her belt. Its handle is sleek, white-gold, and well worn in the shape of her fingers. She has killed a dozen Lambs with this very blade.

She drives the knife downward but I catch her wrist, holding it back. The blade hovers a mere inch from my face, close enough that one slip would slice me between the eyes. Lethe’s brow furrows, her gaze wild and glassy with rage.

Blood is still pooling in my mouth, almost choking me. I spit it into her face.

Howling furiously, she slackens her grip. With all the strength I can muster, I knee her in the stomach. Lethe falls over, clutching her middle.

“Fuck you,” she snarls. Half of her unnaturally lovely face is caked in mud. “You always thought you were so much better than the rest of us.”

I snatch my rifle from the ground and stand. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins, chasing away any pain, but my limbs are shaking as I raise the gun and point the barrel at her forehead.

“Yield,” I say.

I do think I’m better than her, but not for the reason she imagines. Not for the reason I once believed, too. I’m better because I’m free now, alive with both hope and fear, guilt and fury, love and loathing. Kindness and mercy demand strength. Feeling nothing is true cowardice.

Once, Lethe was like me: a scared little girl dragged away from her parents and pinned down to a cold metal operating table. She’s been jabbed with syringes, cut open with scalpels. She had knives thrust into her hands before she even learned how to tie her shoes. She only knows how to kill and how to hate. She’s never been taught how to believe or how to dream. If she has ever been held without being hurt, she doesn’t remember it now. Azrael has stolen away all her soft and fragile pieces.

Lethe’s gaze is relentless and cold as she stares at me. The clouds overhead gather into a thick gray knot. Rain begins to patter through the branches. I keep my rifle trained on her forehead.

With a sudden, agile twist of her body, she sweeps my legs out from under me. I tip forward, and I have to let go of my rifle to catch myself on my hands and knees. Lethe charges me, pinning me down to the frost-encrusted earth once more.

“You don’t have to do this,” I tell her, gasping to get the words out. “I know you think you don’t have a choice, but you do. Lethe—”

She strikes me across the face, so hard that my cheek bristles with pain.

“Shut up,” she snarls. “Just shut up!”

The rain is falling more furiously now, the blades of thehelicopter spraying it in all directions. Cold rivulets stream down Lethe’s face, dripping onto mine.

“Azrael can’t win if you stop playing his game,” I managed. As she reaches for her knife, I put an arm up to block her, and she screeches in frustration. “You’re more than what he made you. You’re not just a tool. You’re a person. A human being.”

She tries to drive her knife down, but I hold her back, and she howls again. Between the rain and the beating of the helicopter blades, her screams are almost silent now.

Even through the wet strands of Lethe’s hair, through the broken black tree branches, I can glimpse Azrael’s face. It’s blurry, like a water-stained page, but the twist of his mouth is familiar enough that I could recognize it anywhere. All the times he watched me falter in the shooting range, paralyzed by memories that couldn’t be erased, even after so many Wipes. I’m disappointing him now. Lethe is disappointing him. This isn’t the climax he wants.

With another furious scream, Lethe drops the knife, and instead reaches for my throat. Rain beats down, making her skin slippery as I try to pry her arm away.

“You’re just pathetic and weak,” she sneers. “And now the whole world knows it. They’ve seen you bend to that Lamb. They’re all cheering for me to kill you. But maybe I’ll keep you alive just long enough to watch me gut your little lover.”

Darkness is creeping into the corners of my vision. Beneath her crushing grip, only the faintest, wheezing breaths can slip in and out of my throat.

“Stop,” I manage hoarsely. “Lethe, please—”

But there’s nothing in her eyes except empty, vicious rage.

My vision narrows, winnowing away, until I see only black. Dying feels like going under. I can almost sense the prick of the needle against my throat.

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