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Authors: Holly Black
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one hand. “Come, Tana. The night is young and your friend is very tired. We should make him a bed— a cap of flowers and a kirtle, embroidered all with leaves of myrtle .” His voice sounded odd, abstracted.
She bent down to where Aidan was lying and touched his chest. It rose and fell as if he was, indeed, only sleeping. “Is he going to—will he live?”
“No,” said Gavriel. “No chance of that. He wants to die, so he will. But not tonight and not because of me.”
“Oh,” Tana said. “So he’s okay?”
Under the floodlights, Gavriel’s skin looked nearly white, his mouth stained red despite his rubbing it. It was the first time she’d seen him standing and again she was struck by the incongruity of him—tall, bare feet, jeans, and a black T-shirt turned inside out, messy black hair, chains gone, looking like the shadow of a regular boy, a boy her age, who wasn’t a boy at all.
And there was a body slumped at his feet.
“Yes,” he said, reaching out a hand. “But you’re hurt.”
She looked down at herself, at the mess of her dress and the messof her knees and the mess of everything. “I haven’t had a very good day. I think I might still be hung over and everyone’s dead and my root beer’s gone.” Horrifyingly, she felt her eyes prick with sudden tears.
He bent down and picked up Aidan, slinging him over one shoulder. “We’ll get you another day,” Gavriel said, with such odd sincerity that she had to smile.
CHAPTER 8
Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.
—George Eliot
S ometimes there are stories in the news about little kids who do bad things because they don’t know any better. Like playing with loaded guns that go off and kill brothers, or lighting matches that accidentally set fire to a whole house.
It’s not the kid’s fault.
Except that it is, really, only no one wants to say it. Who else is there to blame? The kid is the one who disobeyed, the one who stole the keys and unlocked all the locks and almost let the bad thing out.
What really happened in the basement of Tana’s house wasn’t like any of her happy dreams where she and her mother frolicked together. After she’d gone down the stairs, a monster had attacked her, mad with hunger, teeth gnawing with such ferocity that the vein in her arm was severed, gobbets of flesh sliding down its throat.
She had shrieked and shrieked for her mother, but her mother was already there. Her mother was the monster.
When Tana woke up, she found out that it was her father who’d saved her. He’d used a shovel to hack off his wife’s head. Then he’d made a tourniquet from a strip of his shirt and taken his disobedient daughter to the hospital, where doctors sewed up her arm.
No one said it was her fault. No one said they hated her. No one said it was because of her that her mother was dead.
No one had to.
CHAPTER 9
And what the dead had no speech for, when living, they can tell you, being dead: The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
—T. S. Eliot
T ana could barely keep her eyes open. Gavriel was at the wheel, having taken the keys from Aidan’s pockets after depositing him in the backseat. Tana should have protested, but she’d let him get in on the driver’s side, let him turn the key in the ignition. She’d gathered up the bottle of water and the two sandwiches, still wrapped in plastic, brushed off the grit and eaten them while they sped along the road, headlights picking out the dark shapes of trees and houses. The windows were down, and Gavriel’s hair blew around his face like frayed black ribbons.
She didn’t know where they were going, only that they were driving away from her former life and into a distorted fun house mirror version of it.
After the food, she felt as sleepy as if she’d been drugged. It was the adrenaline draining away, she was pretty sure, the terror receding. She tried to convince herself that she wasn’t
She bent down to where Aidan was lying and touched his chest. It rose and fell as if he was, indeed, only sleeping. “Is he going to—will he live?”
“No,” said Gavriel. “No chance of that. He wants to die, so he will. But not tonight and not because of me.”
“Oh,” Tana said. “So he’s okay?”
Under the floodlights, Gavriel’s skin looked nearly white, his mouth stained red despite his rubbing it. It was the first time she’d seen him standing and again she was struck by the incongruity of him—tall, bare feet, jeans, and a black T-shirt turned inside out, messy black hair, chains gone, looking like the shadow of a regular boy, a boy her age, who wasn’t a boy at all.
And there was a body slumped at his feet.
“Yes,” he said, reaching out a hand. “But you’re hurt.”
She looked down at herself, at the mess of her dress and the messof her knees and the mess of everything. “I haven’t had a very good day. I think I might still be hung over and everyone’s dead and my root beer’s gone.” Horrifyingly, she felt her eyes prick with sudden tears.
He bent down and picked up Aidan, slinging him over one shoulder. “We’ll get you another day,” Gavriel said, with such odd sincerity that she had to smile.
CHAPTER 8
Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.
—George Eliot
S ometimes there are stories in the news about little kids who do bad things because they don’t know any better. Like playing with loaded guns that go off and kill brothers, or lighting matches that accidentally set fire to a whole house.
It’s not the kid’s fault.
Except that it is, really, only no one wants to say it. Who else is there to blame? The kid is the one who disobeyed, the one who stole the keys and unlocked all the locks and almost let the bad thing out.
What really happened in the basement of Tana’s house wasn’t like any of her happy dreams where she and her mother frolicked together. After she’d gone down the stairs, a monster had attacked her, mad with hunger, teeth gnawing with such ferocity that the vein in her arm was severed, gobbets of flesh sliding down its throat.
She had shrieked and shrieked for her mother, but her mother was already there. Her mother was the monster.
When Tana woke up, she found out that it was her father who’d saved her. He’d used a shovel to hack off his wife’s head. Then he’d made a tourniquet from a strip of his shirt and taken his disobedient daughter to the hospital, where doctors sewed up her arm.
No one said it was her fault. No one said they hated her. No one said it was because of her that her mother was dead.
No one had to.
CHAPTER 9
And what the dead had no speech for, when living, they can tell you, being dead: The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
—T. S. Eliot
T ana could barely keep her eyes open. Gavriel was at the wheel, having taken the keys from Aidan’s pockets after depositing him in the backseat. Tana should have protested, but she’d let him get in on the driver’s side, let him turn the key in the ignition. She’d gathered up the bottle of water and the two sandwiches, still wrapped in plastic, brushed off the grit and eaten them while they sped along the road, headlights picking out the dark shapes of trees and houses. The windows were down, and Gavriel’s hair blew around his face like frayed black ribbons.
She didn’t know where they were going, only that they were driving away from her former life and into a distorted fun house mirror version of it.
After the food, she felt as sleepy as if she’d been drugged. It was the adrenaline draining away, she was pretty sure, the terror receding. She tried to convince herself that she wasn’t
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