Another cry answered the first. They were circling. But holding back. Waiting for reinforcements, maybe. Three still didn’t know what had happened to the last few. He couldn’t count on it happening again.
Cass and Wren sobbed and held each other, Cass stroking his hair, kissing his face and ear where she could reach him. Then soothing him.
“Wren, it’s OK. It’s OK, baby. Go with Three, sweetheart, he’s going to take care of you. It’s going to be OK.”
The Weir called out again, closer now. Closing in. They were out of time. Three grabbed Wren around the torso and pulled him away. Wren screamed and writhed, inconsolable wails of his heart crying out for his mama, but Three pulled him in close, held him tight. As he stood, he exchanged a look with Cass that said nothing he wanted it to. She reached behind her and produced the jittergun. Her face hardened in raw determination.
“Go.”
And Three went.
He turned and didn’t look back then, clutching Wren to him. Together they dropped through the hole in the floor, and then Three ran. The last vestiges of adrenaline fired up as the sounds of the Weir closing in magnified, and were soon joined by the buzz of the jittergun firing off bursts.
But as he ran, Three knew something was wrong. His legs were heavy, and he was going cold. Too cold for it to just be the pre-dawn air. The sky was getting lighter, there was no doubt. But he couldn’t outrun the Weir. His breathing was labored now, every inhale sizzling pain through his side, every exhale ragged. He willed himself on, and found even that was not enough. He stumbled once, then again. The third time, he couldn’t catch his balance, and went down hard on his knees.
Behind him, there were no more sounds of the jittergun. Which meant pursuit was not far behind. Three laid Wren down on the ground in front of him, and the boy laid still, shock having silenced him for the moment. And sure enough, behind them now, Three could just begin to make out the first footfalls of the approaching Weir.
He drew his pistol then, checked the cylinder. One shot. Three’s head swam, and he was suddenly lying on the ground, next to Wren. So cold. Three lifted the pistol, slid its heavy barrel along the ground. Lined it up with Wren’s golden hair.
The Weir were closer now. Less than a minute, they’d be upon them. Three placed his finger on the trigger.
“Three?”
“Yeah, Wren?”
“Are angels real?”
“I dunno. I hope so.”
Wren sat up on his elbow. Three struggled to adjust his aim. Thirty seconds.
“I think they’re real.”
“That’s good, Wren. Maybe we’ll see some.”
“I see them now.”
Three didn’t see any angels. But now he heard something strange. A single note sung out, high and clear. And beautiful. A simple melody floated on the wind, and it stirred his heart. Maybe there were angels after all.
He shifted his gaze in the direction of the sound, and saw shapes in the distance. Three of them, approaching steadily. Gliding, it seemed.
“They’re beautiful,” Wren said in awe. In reverence.
And then all was dark.
Twenty-Four
She was there. Before anything else came back to him, Cass was there, looking down at him. Watching over him… No. Cass was gone now. She was gone. He had left her.
Something moved in the darkness. A presence. Watching. Waiting. Evaluating. Lie still. A steady patter, just at the edge of hearing. Boiling water? Sharper. Rain upon a roof. Inside, then. The presence shifted, slipped away. Low voices in the distance.
Three felt his eyes open thickly, felt them strain to focus in the gloom. An orange-hued darkness; dusky, warm. The walls seemed too tall, the ceiling too far away. He turned his head, or rather let it roll to one side under its own weight. Across the room, a small canister sat on the floor radiating a dull orange light. Soothing, but unsteady. Fire in a bottle. Three’s clouded mind struggled to identify the device, nagged him for his inability to find its name.
A shadow moved across the room. Feet gliding into view, backlit by the light. The presence. A person. A woman. She knelt down, but only in silhouette. Three realized he was lying on the floor. No, not the floor. On some sort of mat on the floor. The woman pressed a hand to his forehead, her skin smooth and cool.
“Cass?” he heard a voice whisper. A voice like his, but weak, ragged. His tongue felt too large for his mouth.
She made no reply. Not Cass. Cass was gone. She moved her hands, and he felt them on his shoulder, on his chest, then a stab of white pain slashed his vision. He wanted to cry out, but there was no air in his lungs. The woman stood quickly and disappeared again, as spots floated in Three’s already blurry vision.
Wren. Where was Wren?
Footsteps outside. Louder, but somehow more distant. Darkness closed in.
A lantern. It’s called a lantern.
In his dream, and he knew it was a dream because he was with Cass, they were back in the agent’s office, back where Three had killed Kostya thinking he was Fedor. Except Kostya wasn’t there now, and the agent was away. Cass sat on the agent’s desk, and Wren stood by her, driving his shuttle car amidst the clutter. And she watched her son, smiled at him, smiled with her sudden warmth like the sun breaking through a storm cloud. Three wanted to reach out to her and found he couldn’t move. Wanted to call her name, but found he couldn’t speak. She noticed him anyway, she looked to him, surprised, startled. But then her eyes danced with some secret delight, and her lips moved with a subtle curl at the edges. A whisper. She spoke, but Three couldn’t hear her.
She slid off the agent’s desk, landed lightly on her feet. Glided to him, so close he could feel the warmth of her, so close but never touching, and she passed by and slipped through the door and walked down the long marble hall, impossibly long, without looking back. Three strained to call out, fought to chase after her, to catch her one last time before she disappeared, but it was no use. The office grew steadily warmer, steadily darker, and as Three tried to draw a breath, it was like sucking air through a heavy blanket.
A dream. Only a dream. And some part of Three’s mind, the part that knew he was dreaming, knew just as well that something was terribly wrong.
There was commotion, and a fiery brand of raw pain shot from between Three’s ribs into his chest cavity, forking like a bolt of lightning, shocking him awake. He struggled to escape, to twist away from the hurt, but they were holding him, they were holding him down, and there were too many to escape, and he was too weak to break free. The Weir. It had all been a dream, and he was only now waking to find the Weir were upon him.
No, there were hurried words. Three’s mind fought the confusion, the disoriented thoughts scattered by fatigue and trauma and pain and loss. Cass was gone. He had left her.
A face loomed into view, serious, concerned, but human. Fully human. A man. Old, early sixties, Asian. Bright eyes peered into his, as a voice floated into his consciousness.
“…relieve the pressure there…”
There was still pain, but Three found breathing easier. The man nodded, withdrew. Three’s vision swam, his limbs went suddenly warm and tingly. He fought it, but knew he was going under again. The man reappeared, calm, soothing.
“Rest. You are safe here. Your son is here, safe.” Three felt a pressure on his shoulder. A comforting hand. “Rest now. Rest.”
Three felt a question forming in his mind, but couldn’t grasp it before the darkness came, and he knew no more.
Oddly, it was hunger that brought him around. A dull but deep ache in the pit of his stomach dragged him from whatever bottomless sleep he had fallen into. And in that in-between space between sleep and wakefulness, a sound entered his consciousness. Soft, subdued, but clear, haunting as it was hopeful. Singing. A woman’s voice, like a winter’s wind in high places, or the sharp brilliance of the night sky. He’d heard it before. There, at the end.