“You can’t take the city.” Courtney stepped forward and poked a finger in the skeleton’s face. “It’s time for you to go.”
His teeth chattered, which was disturbing and unhelpful.
“Don’t give me that attitude,” Courtney said.
He shrugged, rusty armor creaking, decaying skin tag wobbling off his bony jaw.
“We mean it,” I said, the hero potion forcing me to stand my ground even though I wanted to grab Courtney’s hand and run. “Get out of here.”
The skeleton placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. A few surrounding skeletons caught on and began wagging fingers and wobbling their skulls in an obstinate way I didn’t appreciate.
“The undead are making us look foolish, sir,” Winston called helpfully.
“Yep, I got that,” I said, my hero mouth adding, “Thank you. I love and appreciate you.”
“Pack up and leave,” Courtney said to the skeletons, “or we’ll replant you so far down, you’ll be able to make friends with what’s left of the dinosaurs.”
The skeleton recoiled, placing bony fingers over his wide grin in a mocking depiction of a gasp. Nearby skeletons chattered, slapping one another on their backs. Armor clanked. A few bones clattered to the ground.
Our friend with the bashed-in skull—or Bash, for short—started marching around, waving a hand like he was issuing orders. The most deeply unsettling mime, maybe ever. And mimes were already fucking upsetting.
In a truly impressive display of douchebaggery, more skeletons got in on the action, strutting around and wobbling their heads. A few pointed at me, then twisted fists comically overtheir eye sockets. The very skilled managed to squeeze out a few earthworms like tears.
“Hey!” Courtney said, more emotion in her voice than I’d heard maybe ever. She grabbed Bash by his breastplate and shook him so hard he rattled. “What will raiding the city get you? Why follow Greg’s orders? Make your own choices. You think life is over for you because you’re dead?”
“I think they do, my lady,” Winston said. “I believe they do think it is over for them, seeing as they are dead.”
“Marvelous observation,” Courtney said, eyes bright. She dropped Bash, who barely managed to keep his footing. “Your life isn’t over, okay? You’ve got a second chance. Maybe you got hurt—killed—once before,” she went on, “but that doesn’t mean you should get yourself killed again before you’ve had a chance to live.” And though Courtney was talking to an ugly skeleton, it felt like she spoke to me.
My heart beat loudly in my ears. Courtney and I changed to be heroes, but in doing so, we erased the flaws that made us unique. Even if we were right and a relationship between us would’ve burned out, in changing ourselves, we doused the flames before they formed. The Courtney I’d fallen for was gone. She didn’t like me this way any more than I liked her. We’d messed up big-time.
My thoughts scattered as the skeleton leaned in, leering at Courtney, tilting his head this way and that, inches from her face. The rotten skin tag dangled in front of her nose.
“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” Courtney said in an overly cheerful way that made me suspect she didn’t mind that it had come to this. She slapped the skeleton hard across his grubby skull. Palm hit bone with a hollowthwack.
The skin tag went flying.
We watched in slow-mo horrified fascination as it arced across the sky, descending toward Cuthbert’s upturned face.
The skin tag landed wetly, flopping across Cuthbert’s cheek.
Cuthbert let out a perfect Wilhelm scream.
Winston sympathy vomited.
Bash was greatly offended by it all and in silent hysterics, spread fingers quivering over his now-bare skull.
The blacksmith droned on about how he didn’t condone violence in most circumstances, but he hadn’t decided if his views pertained to people after they died—even if they were alive.
Pants picked lint off her pants, because that was all that mattered in her world.
Cuthbert screamed for someone to please remove the rotten chunk of Bash from his face.
“We will bring forth a champion,” Courtney was yelling over the chaos, “to fight one of yours. We will settle this civilly—”
“Dear gods, not like this! Not like this!” Cuthbert howled at the sky, going cross-eyed as he stared in horror at the runaway piece of Bash’s face, which had apparently decided Cuthbert’s face was its new home.
“—and with integrity,” Courtney went on. “I call forth”—she turned to the three-ring circus behind her and pointed at Winston, who tore himself away from his Important Work, which consisted of circling Cuthbert while waving frantic hands and accomplishing nothing of use—“I call forth…you.”
