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Authors: Jonathan Maberry
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all the lives she’d taken before she realized how horrible the Night Church was. She felt like she now stood ankle-deep in a river of blood. She could feel the bloodlust, the murderlust, burning in her heart and tingling in the fingers of the hand that held the knife. She realized with total horror that she wanted to kill these men; she longed to open red mouths in their flesh. To give them the gift of darkness.
It was everything her mother had ever taught her.
Everything Saint John had taught her.
It was the thing about her that allowed them to own her.
The blood hunger, the murder hunger, the need to kill in order to make the world right.
Riot thought she had escaped all of this when she’d run away from the Night Church.
But it was there in her hand. In her pounding ear.
In her need .
“Please,” she said to the two reapers. “Please.”
They rushed at her.
Something inside Riot’s mind . . . twisted.
She moved.
So fast.
As she had been taught.
Their blades drove toward her flesh. She parried hard, knocking one hand aside so that the tip of the knife drove through the empty air an inch from her hip. With the other hand she snapped the tip of the blade down, finding flesh, finding bone.
There was a scream.
There was blood.
Brother Colin’s knife dropped to clatter on the ground.
Riot moved, turning lithely. She may not have been able to dance a bicycle like Gummi Bear or run like the desert wind over every obstacle like Jolt, but in this, in the dance of blades and bodies, she was perfection in form and function. Elegant, in the way that perfect control can be elegant even in the commission of a violent act. Smooth, effortless, flawless.
Riot turned, and the blade whipped across Brother Max, cutting cloth and skin. Finding the redness beneath flesh. Drawing drops of it out in a spray of rubies. Drawing the scream out.
She turned in, completing a dancer’s pirouette, coming to an abrupt stop as if painted on the canvas of the moment. Brother Max was on his knees, arms crossed over his chest, holding his blood inside. Brother Colin leaned against a car, one hand clamped over a ruined forearm. Both of them torn by her knife.
Both of the them only torn.
Both of them alive.
“Riot,” said Jolt.
She stood there, panting, eyes wide and unfocused, staring through the world.
“Riot,” he said again.
And she looked at him.
Jolt leaned against the truck; Brother Andrew held him in place with a flat palm on his chest and a fist the size of a bucket poised to deliver a killing blow.
Brother Andrew sneered at her, at her refusal to kill. “How far you’ve fallen, little witch.”
He drove the punch at Jolt.
Jolt laughed.
He suddenly dropped into a low squat, letting his body simply go limp in a deadweight plunge. Andrew’s hand slid with him, and the incoming punch missed Jolt’s curly blond hair by ten inches.
It did not miss the side of the truck.
The impact was huge, a massive ka-rang that shook the whole vehicle.
The sound was so loud it masked the sound of all the bones in Andrew’s fist breaking.
The echo of the sound bounced off all the cars. It drew moans from the dead—the closest of which were now no more than a dozen paces away.
Brother Andrew did not scream.
He stared at his shattered fist, and for a moment the only sound he made, the only sound he was capable of making, was a high-pitched whistle that approached the ultra-sonic.
Jolt rose to his feet and shoved Brother Andrew away from him. The big reaper staggered back, his face flushing scarlet as he fought to articulate his agony.
“Finish it,” cried Riot.
Jolt looked at her. “What?”
“Kill him!” begged Riot. “While you still have the chance.”
The young man glanced at Andrew, who reeled away from him, cradling his hand against his chest and making small keening sounds.
“No,” said Jolt. “It’s over; he’s done.”
“He’s not .”
“Yes, he is.” He looked past her at the two wounded
It was everything her mother had ever taught her.
Everything Saint John had taught her.
It was the thing about her that allowed them to own her.
The blood hunger, the murder hunger, the need to kill in order to make the world right.
Riot thought she had escaped all of this when she’d run away from the Night Church.
But it was there in her hand. In her pounding ear.
In her need .
“Please,” she said to the two reapers. “Please.”
They rushed at her.
Something inside Riot’s mind . . . twisted.
She moved.
So fast.
As she had been taught.
Their blades drove toward her flesh. She parried hard, knocking one hand aside so that the tip of the knife drove through the empty air an inch from her hip. With the other hand she snapped the tip of the blade down, finding flesh, finding bone.
There was a scream.
There was blood.
Brother Colin’s knife dropped to clatter on the ground.
Riot moved, turning lithely. She may not have been able to dance a bicycle like Gummi Bear or run like the desert wind over every obstacle like Jolt, but in this, in the dance of blades and bodies, she was perfection in form and function. Elegant, in the way that perfect control can be elegant even in the commission of a violent act. Smooth, effortless, flawless.
Riot turned, and the blade whipped across Brother Max, cutting cloth and skin. Finding the redness beneath flesh. Drawing drops of it out in a spray of rubies. Drawing the scream out.
She turned in, completing a dancer’s pirouette, coming to an abrupt stop as if painted on the canvas of the moment. Brother Max was on his knees, arms crossed over his chest, holding his blood inside. Brother Colin leaned against a car, one hand clamped over a ruined forearm. Both of them torn by her knife.
Both of the them only torn.
Both of them alive.
“Riot,” said Jolt.
She stood there, panting, eyes wide and unfocused, staring through the world.
“Riot,” he said again.
And she looked at him.
Jolt leaned against the truck; Brother Andrew held him in place with a flat palm on his chest and a fist the size of a bucket poised to deliver a killing blow.
Brother Andrew sneered at her, at her refusal to kill. “How far you’ve fallen, little witch.”
He drove the punch at Jolt.
Jolt laughed.
He suddenly dropped into a low squat, letting his body simply go limp in a deadweight plunge. Andrew’s hand slid with him, and the incoming punch missed Jolt’s curly blond hair by ten inches.
It did not miss the side of the truck.
The impact was huge, a massive ka-rang that shook the whole vehicle.
The sound was so loud it masked the sound of all the bones in Andrew’s fist breaking.
The echo of the sound bounced off all the cars. It drew moans from the dead—the closest of which were now no more than a dozen paces away.
Brother Andrew did not scream.
He stared at his shattered fist, and for a moment the only sound he made, the only sound he was capable of making, was a high-pitched whistle that approached the ultra-sonic.
Jolt rose to his feet and shoved Brother Andrew away from him. The big reaper staggered back, his face flushing scarlet as he fought to articulate his agony.
“Finish it,” cried Riot.
Jolt looked at her. “What?”
“Kill him!” begged Riot. “While you still have the chance.”
The young man glanced at Andrew, who reeled away from him, cradling his hand against his chest and making small keening sounds.
“No,” said Jolt. “It’s over; he’s done.”
“He’s not .”
“Yes, he is.” He looked past her at the two wounded
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