Guardians (31 page)

Someone had broken through the greenhouse and leaped from the roof.

Everyone shrank back as the body hurtled straight down at them, tumbling midair in a shower of broken glass as its tattered robes fluttered. It hit the sidewalk with astonishing force; the ground jolted as the pavement cracked beneath it. Those standing closest to it shrieked as they were splattered with blood and gore.

Esther had both hands pressed to her mouth in shock. Less than three feet away, the body had landed facedown, covered in glistening shards with one arm bent backward at an angle that made her feel faint. She steeled herself and took hold of his shoulder. Flipping him over, she stared into the face of an unfamiliar boy with a snub nose and curly black hair. His expression was strangely serene: It seemed as if he were only sleeping. But that wasn't the only shock.

His arms were covered with lesions.

A girl behind her let out a cry. “He was sick.” Frantic, she backed away in terror as she tried to wipe the blood from her face.

As word spread, panic began to fill the air. Esther tried to make sense of what had happened.
Had the boy leaped because of the disease? But why now?
Then a teenage girl next to her grabbed her arm and pointed upward.

Another body was falling toward them. Seconds later, it was followed by a third.

Everyone scattered. They flattened themselves against the sides of the building or crouched behind abandoned cars, fighting one another for cover. All eyes were wide with horror as they followed the bodies plummeting to the ground, landing with one deafening explosion after another.

By now, the sidewalk was stained red and heaped with carnage, glinting with broken shards, but Esther didn't care. As the wind whipped her hair, she examined the bodies. Like the first, both showed signs of the disease: wasted limbs covered with purple lesions. But one also showed advanced signs of decay.

The realization hit Esther like a physical blow:

The bodies had been dead long before they hit the ground. Which meant only one thing: Someone was throwing them off the roof. The corpses were being used as weapons to drive the revolutionaries away
.

The tactic was working.

Everyone around Esther was screaming, pulling off their robes as they frantically attempted to wipe themselves clean. Dozens had already fled, including all of Esther's recruits. The sidewalk was littered with their abandoned weapons.

The uprising was over before it had even begun.

Even Esther's friends seemed to surrender where they stood, trembling and splattered with filth. Esther saw Michal tugging Skar's hand, begging her wordlessly to find shelter. Skar glanced at Esther, who just nodded, giving them permission to leave. Skar signaled the others, and one by one, they picked their way across the street and disappeared around a corner.

Esther remained where she was.

Trey was the last to leave her. He met her gaze and gave a faint smile. He held out a hand, but she didn't take it. Then he joined the others, his footsteps crunching on broken glass.

Now it was just Esther, alone.

She stood with her chin high, gazing upward. She was certain that Gideon must be watching—either from the roof, where he had ordered the attack, or from one of the lower floors. Wherever he was, this was how she wished him to see her: defiant and unafraid, even in defeat.

Then Esther heard it: the first rumble of thunder.

Transfixed, she stared up at the sky. A brilliant fork of light split the gray and yellow, and moments later, a deafening roar boomed through the streets of Mundreel. When the rain began, it did so in a burst: A dense veil fell in sheets and waves, drenching everything in its path and filling the air with a heavy thrumming sound.

Esther didn't move. Although she could hear the screams of others as they took refuge in buildings and parked cars, she stood and marveled at the strange feeling.

She had never before felt the rain, had never experienced the tickling sensation of a thousand warm drops bouncing off her damp skin, running through her hair and down her back, dripping into her mouth and eyes. Her sneakers were filled with water; her feet squelched with moisture. Laughing, Esther pulled down her hood and raised her face to the heavens as her robes grew heavy and sodden.

Days ago, she had listened to Uri's strange words in their refuge on the mountain; since then, she had thought about them many times.

Yet it was only now that she truly understood it in her bones:

She was immune now. The rain could no longer hurt her
.

Lowering her head, Esther shook her hair hard so that drops flew. Then she blinked through the water that dripped into her eyes. Through it, she glimpsed her friends, huddled together for shelter in the doorways of neighboring buildings. When she caught Uri's eye, they both smiled; then he nodded.

Dozens of people stood only a few feet away from Esther, on the other side of the glass, openmouthed with wonder. All of them wore the white and black robes of Saith's followers, some with their hoods down. A few even leaned their hands against the partition, as if to get closer.

They stayed like that for an endless moment. Even after the rain stopped and the sun began to break through, Saith's people stared at Esther, occasionally turning to whisper to one another.

Others also began to appear around her, emerging from
buildings in tentative twos and threes, stepping carefully through the moisture. They stopped and stared at the drenched girl before them.

Esther pointed to the District, and said, “Let's go.”

Now they would follow her anywhere.

“F
ORGIVE US
, S
AITH
. C
LEAN US
, S
AITH
. H
EAL US
, S
AITH
. S
AVE US
,
Saith.”

Saith winced.

The chanting voices that she normally found so soothing were much too loud, even unpleasant. She had stationed two boys with metal pans on either side of the altar who struck them rhythmically with wooden clubs; now she regretted that touch. Combined with the dense and pungent smoke that wafted from firebowls placed around her room, the noise felt like a metal spike passing through her burning temples. She rubbed her head, feeling the dry, papery skin beneath her
fingers, and again tried to concentrate.

She was burning up with fever.

Shaky and weak, the girl tried to focus, to find once more the divine conviction deep inside her, the unquestioning sense of self that for months had ruled everything she said and did. But right now she felt nothing except pain, heat, and a bone-crushing exhaustion. She grasped the heavy knife with the black handle, the silver blade printed with the strange word
SABATIER;
it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. As she attempted to hoist it, everything swam in front of her eyes: the lines of hooded acolytes kneeling on the ground in front of her, bowing in unison, the guards on both sides, and the white billows of smoke. The only thing she could do was stare at the thing that was closest, the object that rested on a low table before her: the mutant baby named Sarah.

It lay on its back on a white towel. Burbling and kicking its bare legs, it tossed its head from side to side, its strange lavender gaze flickering around.

The infant gave a passing glance up at the priestess, and when their eyes met, Saith felt a shock that momentarily snapped her out of her dizzy spell. For an instant, she could once again feel the deep wellspring of bottomless power that lay deep within her, crackling like lightning, and inwardly, she was swept by relief.

All she needed was to sacrifice and bathe in the blood of an innocent, and it would be done
.

Summoning all of her strength, with shaky hands, Saith again raised the weapon.

Then she hesitated.

Beyond the chanting and rhythmic beating of the gongs, she heard something else far-off; it was jarring and strange. Saith recognized it: the sound of a large mob, angry and energized. She was not the only one who had noticed; several people in her audience seemed distracted. Some even paused in their repeated bowing, stopping to whisper to one another and cast furtive looks over their shoulders. To her disbelief, one disciple even arose and slipped away, followed by a second and then a third.

It was outrageous. “Stop,” Saith tried to say. Then she raised her voice, to sound commanding and awe-inspiring, but the word came out no louder than a whisper. “Stop!”

No one seemed to hear. In desperation, Saith turned to the guard closest to her, hoping he would intercede. She was astonished to find him openly gaping at the entryway. The chanting faltered as one by one her followers stopped bowing and sat up. Within moments, Saith found herself facing a sea of the backs of people's heads. She heard one word repeated again and again:

EstherEstherEsther
.

Saith blinked.
Why were they saying that name? Her enemy was dead, had been dead for weeks
.

Then Saith shook her head. It was beneath her to pay attention to this disruption, whatever it was. She would demonstrate the kind of power she had by ignoring it.

Once again, Saith lifted the blade.

But as she did, a girl with dark, matted hair materialized
in the doorway. Paying no attention to the solemn ritual taking place, much less to Saith, she stood there, breathless and laughing. The haphazard chanting stopped altogether. Even the guards stopped banging on the pans so they could hear.

“It's Esther,” said the girl. “She come back from the dead. She here!”

Saith's hand began to tremble; she felt as if she would faint. Her mouth opened and shut without a sound. Then she turned to tell her guards to seize this lying intruder. They would not only punish this girl for her sacrilegious behavior; they would make an example of what would happen to those who showed a god such disrespect.

But all in the room had risen to their feet. Talking loudly, laughing and exclaiming, they began to leave the room. Even her guards did nothing to stop them. In fact, they looked torn. Huddled at the doorway, they gazed out as if they yearned to see what was going on. And then, with an impulse greater than obedience, duty, or even fear, they too fled.

Saith was left alone.

Unnerved, she had a sudden and terrible presentiment: She was the one who was dead, not Esther. And that could not be.

Trembling with fresh anger, Saith stood. The knife slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor with a clatter. With dull, unseeing eyes, she stepped over the baby. Then she stumbled down the aisle.

With great difficulty, the girl made her way through the vast atrium of the District. Her tiny bare feet hardly left an impression on the dusty floor. Delirious, she felt as if she were
floating; the entire building shimmered around her with waves of scorching heat. To escape the unbearable temperature, she pushed back her hood; soon, she tore away her robes altogether, leaving them piled behind her on the ground. Wearing only a voluminous black T-shirt that hung to her bony knees, Saith no longer cared that the signs of her illness were visible to all.

She clung to the greasy metal banister and even so, nearly fell down the stairs; still, she managed to right herself and keep going. Although her legs were like lead and she felt as if her entire body were on fire, Saith was fueled by something more powerful than sickness: curiosity.

She had to see Esther for herself.

Saith reached the main level and rested against the cool marble wall. There, blinking to adjust her sight, she saw what she had been fearing: A massive and jubilant mob filled the lobby and spilled out the doors onto the sidewalk.

They were gathered around one individual. The person, a female, was using language that Saith had never heard before, strange words that made no sense: “immunity.” “Exposure.” She realized that the girl was talking about the killing disease, saying that there was now a way to prevent it.

Preposterous,
Saith thought with contempt.
The fools
.

When the priestess finally made her way to the center, she saw that the girl was in her teens: thin, with dark hair shorn close to her head. And it was no wonder the others kept their distance: the creature dripped poison. Her wet clothes clung to her like a second skin and in the rays of sun streaming in, she
seemed to radiate a brilliant light.

Esther.

It was impossible.

“It ain't real,” Saith whispered. No one heard. She had to conjure all her strength. “It a trick. A spirit.”

Those closest to her turned to see who had spoken. Falling silent one by one, they recoiled in shock and horror when they realized how far the disease had progressed.

Saith could no longer read the expressions on people's faces; she could only make out flickering shapes, advancing and receding. Yet she knew they must be smiling at her, bowing to her in deference and support.

The demon pretending to be Esther strode forward, its dark eyes snapping with anger. “Where's Sarah?”

Saith found the energy to laugh. Although she could barely see, she could still hear the urgency in the other's voice.
That meant the ghost was frightened,
Saith thought with satisfaction,
and fear meant weakness
.

The creature now towered over her.
“Where is she?”

Saith smiled through discolored teeth. Then she pursed her lips. Her answer was a long, thin line of spit propelled with surprising force.

It sprayed over Esther and splattered those standing behind her.

The group fell back with a gasp. Then, as the spectators wiped the foul liquid from their faces, something inside them snapped.

The crowd's murmur rose to a bloodcurdling roar of fury as
months of long-buried hatred and fear erupted. Their enemy was before them: alone, unguarded, and vulnerable. Before Esther could stop them, the mob charged as one toward the tiny girl.

“No!” Esther shouted, but they did not hear.

In a second, they were upon the priestess and she vanished under their numbers. Dozens of people made up this blind swarm of rage, snatching, punching, kicking.

Though she kept shouting for them to stop, Esther could no longer see their target. All she heard was a single, piercing shriek. Then, abruptly, it was cut off, its echo piercing through the marble halls. And even then, the mob kept tearing at what wasn't there, crazed by the smell of blood and revenge.

Frozen with fear, Gideon heard it, too.

He was alone on an upper landing, gazing down. From his vantage point, he had seen the terrible inevitability unfold: Saith working her way into the center of the mob and the furious crowd turning on her as one, a pack of wild dogs descending on a single prey.

Even he was taken aback by the unmitigated rage of people who had once professed their love and adoration. Already, they were turning on the hapless guards, who were now unarmed and outnumbered; the atrium rang with the sound of their screams. He knew he would be next. Within minutes, they would hunt him down as well, with Esther leading the way.

Where could he go?

Gideon ran through the empty corridors, his sneakers
squeaking on the marble floor as he skidded around corners. One quick look over the railing told him what he had feared: The doors were now guarded by Esther's people. He could already sense the mob starting to spread out, moving upward into the building; by his calculation, he was ahead of them by perhaps two or three minutes at most. The District was enormous, and he knew its intricacies well. Every hiding place he considered, he rejected out of hand.

But as he ran past Saith's former chambers, he stopped. Since they had finished with the girl, perhaps he would be safe there. Venturing in, Gideon found it in shambles, as if its former inhabitants had vacated suddenly.

The room had been set up in a bizarre way for Saith's ceremony, with pots and smoldering firebowls on either side of her throne. In front of it was a low table. And lying on it was a child, wailing as it kicked its rosy limbs.

Esther's baby.

Gideon stood there, staring at it. His only emotion was overwhelming relief: This was a valuable good with which he could bargain.

He swept the infant up in his arms.

The boy had never held a baby before. The thing was warm and slippery; as it kicked its tiny legs and struggled in protest, it began to slide from his grasp. Frantic that he might accidentally kill it, Gideon tightened his hold. As if sensing his discomfort, the child began to cry even harder.

Attempting to muffle its screams against his chest only seemed to make the child cry louder. Gideon had to rock the
thing clumsily in his arms to pacify it. Then the boy peered outside of the room. He ran for the corner stairwell and slipped inside.

Climbing the long, dark flights to the roof was twice as hard when carrying a wriggling infant. Occasionally, he heard doors clang open below him and footsteps thunder up or down a flight. When that happened, he had to stop where he was and bounce the child in order to silence it, his heart pounding in his chest.

Minutes later, soaked with sweat, he finally reached the top. He pushed open the heavy metal door and stepped out into the blinding heat. Hot air gusted in at him from the immense opening smashed into the glass wall. This was where he'd ordered his guards to break through so that they could hurl the dead bodies down at the protesters below.

The hole still held glass fragments. He brushed some aside and, with the blanket guarding its naked skin, propped the child against the edge. If anyone came near him, a single move would send it over.

Gideon caught his breath and prepared to wait.