Next of Kin (6 page)

“You drained them?” he asked.

I frowned, confused. How could he possibly—

“He can only drain dead bodies,” said the woman with the gun.

“Obviously not,” said the boy, and touched Gidri’s throat with a pale finger. “If they were dead, they’d turn to ash. That means he incapacitated them, and draining their minds is the only weapon he has.”

The man with the machete reappeared in the hall, covered with greasy ash and bloody splinters. The fight was over, and he’d won. I felt a new wave of fear. These were the ones Gidri had talked about, the other side of our shadow war, and they were far more capable than I’d imagined.

“What are you talking about?” asked Rosie.

The woman with the gun ignored her, keeping the gun trained tightly on my chest. “Protocol says we kill him no matter what—”

“Protocol can wait,” said the boy, and looked at me with renewed interest, the way one would look at an insect pinned to a board. “These aren’t the first people you’ve drained without killing.”

I felt a wave of shame, the deep, dark secret of a life I’d ruined, and I choked out an answer through my raw, ragged throat. “I never wanted to kill.” My voice was scratched and painful, but I forced the words out. “I thought I could . . . sustain myself without hurting anyone, but it was all wrong. I never meant to hurt him.”

“Who?” asked the woman.

“Merrill Evans,” said the boy, and I felt again the horrible sadness of that night, desperate and barely sentient, when I’d searched for a mind and found only my friend, and I couldn’t bear to kill him, so I’d tried what I’d thought was a mercy, and instead I’d damned him to a living hell. I sank to my knees, wishing I could forget, but this wrenching shame was the one thing I could never allow myself to lose. If I forgot what I’d done to Merrill, I might do it again to someone else.

“I have a shot,” said the woman.

“Wait,” said the boy, and turned to Rosie. “We’re with a special branch of the FBI, and we’re here to rescue you. We have an ambulance outside.” He gestured at the woman with the gun. “Will you go with my friend, here?”

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” asked Rosie.

“Outside,” said the boy, and after a moment’s hesitation Rosie stepped around me and took the woman’s hand, moving toward the hall but then stopping in the doorway. The woman tugged on her arm, but Rosie paused to look at me one final time. She opened her mouth to speak, but then turned and left without a word. Another connection severed, another loved one gone forever.

The last little piece of my heart broke, and I looked back at the boy with the dead eyes.

“How did you know about us?” I asked.

“We have what you might call an informant.”

“Another Withered?”

“Friend of a friend.”

I nodded, watching the pieces slowly fit together, but there was still so much I didn’t understand. “Who are you?”

“My name’s John Cleaver,” said the boy, and his dead eyes lit up with the hollow outlines of a smile. “Professional psychopath.”

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

“The war I assume Gidri warned you about is real,” said John. He gestured at the carnage in the room. “I take it you didn’t like his offer, so I’d like you to hear mine.”

I remembered a starless night on an ancient mountain, and another offer that had doomed us all. Ten thousand years of loss and pain.

But I remembered Rosie, too. Our first kiss. A hundred thousand loves from a hundred thousand lives. I could hide, or I could give those lives meaning.

I closed my eyes, and dreamed of death.

When Dan was five years old, he got autographs from both Darth Vader and Mr. Rogers. He owns more than 300 board games. He has visited fifteen different countries and lived in three. He was diagnosed with hypochondria as a child, but it’s mostly gone now. He memorizes poetry for fun. He will eat pretty much anything at least once. He collects ugly ties. He is terrified of needles, mediocrity, and senile dementia. When he dies, his wife has specific instructions to play Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop ’til You Get Enough” at his funeral.

Visit Dan on the web at
www.thedanwells.com
.

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

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