LITMIR.BIZ

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“Tuesday or Wednesday. I lost track. You’re standing.”

      Tuesday or Wednesday. Which meant he’d been raised on Monday. But they’d been here since Friday. “What happened when people showed up for Mass on Sunday?”

      “I don’t know. No one came. When Father Bart mentioned it to…” She wet her lips. “That’s when they killed him. He tried to tell them people would be coming soon for services. They laughed at him and said no one was coming to help us.”

      Cyrus turned away from her tears. They might spark that dangerous human guilt in him, and he had no time for it now. “Did they tell you why?”

      “No. They just started killing.”

      “But they kept them for two days before they killed them. Why?” The timeline didn’t make sense. If he’d taken hostages, he would have dispensed with the useless ones right away.

      When he turned to face the Mouse, her eyes were wide and rimmed with red. “They were doing things. Occult things. Satan worship.”

      “Impossible. The Fangs think Satanists are pussies.” When she flinched at his coarse language, it buoyed his mood. “What, exactly, were they doing?”

      She curled her legs beneath her and toyed with the hem of her dress. A perverse memory of the night before came to his mind. He expected guilt, and when it didn’t come he found its absence far more disturbing than its presence would have been.

      As if sensing the change in him, she wrapped her arms across her chest, hugging herself. “I don’t know what they were doing. They didn’t tell us. But I heard them say the time had to be right, they had to be sure it was him. And they needed Father Bart’s hand.”

      “He had to take part in the ritual?” It made sense. Though Cyrus didn’t believe in all the Catholic tripe he’d been made to swallow as a child, the power of a priest was similar to, if not greater than, that of a practiced magician.

      “Not him. Just his hand.” The words left her in a whisper. “The rest of the stuff they did to them, that was for fun.”

      “Why did they spare you?” Cyrus sat beside her on the bed, ignoring the sting of shame he felt when she cringed from him. “Why not use you and feed from you like they did the nun?”

      “Because I wasn’t as fun.” She trembled as she spoke. A tear slid down her cheek. “I didn’t scream or pray. That’s what they wanted. They wanted her to pray while they did it.”

      The thought would have amused Cyrus in the past, but it didn’t now. Not when this girl was so visibly traumatized by what she’d seen. “Why didn’t you?”

      For the first time, the Mouse looked him in the eye. He saw no life or hope in those dull brown depths. Her body steadied, and her voice was strong. “Because no one was listening.”

      She sounded so like him centuries ago. He tried to keep the emotion from his tone as he spoke. “That is the most important thing you’ll ever learn. Because no one is listening, and no one is looking out for you.”

      She broke down then, gulping great lungfuls of air as she sobbed.

      He stood and walked to the tiny kitchenette, trying to ignore the trembling in his legs. He would not abide becoming so weak again, so fast. “We’re out of milk.”

      “What’s happening?” Her face was swollen and red from crying, contrasting starkly with the white gauze at her neck. “What are they doing?”

      “I have no idea.” He limped to the refrigerator and opened it, then sniffed a potentially suspicious carton of orange juice. It seemed safe enough. But his balance was not. He slammed the carton on the counter, grabbing the edge for support, but tumbled to the floor. The Mouse was at his side in an instant, helping him to his feet and guiding him to a chair.

      “I don’t need your help,” he sniped, but accepted it anyway.

      The Mouse took a glass from the cabinet, then, almost as an afterthought, grabbed another. Her hands shook as she poured the juice.

      He considered offering some comfort to her, but dismissed it. He’d already been kind to her, and he didn’t want it to become a habit. “On the news, they said they’ve called off the search for the three of you. And the church has burned down.”

      “That’s impossible.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “They must have been talking about something else.”

      “Stacey Pickles?” He watched the recognition flash in her eyes before he continued. “They think you died in the desert.”

      “They’re looking for me?” Hope, then bleak terror crossed her face. “Why do they think this place has burned down?”

      “I don’t know. There are spells, called glamours, that make a person see what the caster wishes them to see. But to make a whole building disappear, and do it convincingly to fool many people…that takes power I don’t believe exists.” He shook his head. “Are you going to give me any of that juice?”

      She came forward slowly, like a wild animal unaccustomed to humans, and set the glass carefully before him. “They brought you back from the dead. They must know something you don’t.”

      The very notion that she would speak to him so boldly struck him as ridiculous. He laughed and took a long swallow from his glass. The juice was as thick as blood, but cold and with an unpleasant texture. “I can’t get used to this.”

      “To what?” She didn’t sound as if she cared.

      That alone made him wonder why he’d spoken to her at all. The solitude, he guessed, not only of the last few days, but his long death, as well. It was enough to keep him talking. “Living like a human. It’s been so long since I’ve had to fuel my body with food and liquid. It’s unpleasant.”

      “No. What will be unpleasant is starving to death when the food runs out.” Her expression was grim.

      “That won’t happen. At least, not to me,” he said by way of reassurance. “Your life depends on it, remember. You’re supposed to be caring for me.”

      She looked insulted. “I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me. They’re not going to worry about keeping me alive after they’re done with you.”

      He pulled one of the chairs from the flimsy Formica table and sat. “And what, exactly, is it they’re going to do with me?”

      “I don’t know.” She chewed her lip. “Something bad.”

      “Madame, your powers of perception astound me.” He closed his eyes, mind working furiously. What he needed was a plan, some currency to bargain with the Fangs for information. What he needed was—

      “You talk funny. Where are you from?”

      What he needed was for the Mouse to stop talking. “England. But most recently I was confined to a watery blue purgatory. I don’t remember the address.” He paused. “Were you there? When they did the ritual?”

      Her eyes grew hollow and faraway again. Her voice came out in a whisper. “Yes.”

      “What did they do?” Cyrus pulled another chair from the table and motioned to her to sit. “Were there specific words they said? Did they read them from a book?”

      She remained frozen in place, staring blankly at the tabletop. There was a ring from a cup there, and she seemed to have fixated on it. “I don’t remember.”

      He tamped down his impatience. It wouldn’t do to frighten her again, not when she’d begun to communicate like a rational human being. “It wasn’t that long ago. I’m sure if you take a moment, you’ll remember—”

      “I don’t remember!” She spun toward the counter, where a small stack of dirty dishes and utensils waited to be cleaned, and she swept them to the floor. The shock of her action outlasted the clatter it created, and

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