He’s only reaffirming my fear that the city is too big and has too many hiding places.
“I sent Will out on some errands last night. He’ll meet us at the tavern where we ate yesterday. I may need to put their steam carriage to use.” He opens the door to the room and gestures for me to exit.
The sun is shining outside. Mornings in the city are often foggy, but the sky is clear today.
It seems strange, walking with Elliott without Will on my other side.
“What sort of errands did you send him on?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows. “He took messages to some of my men.”
“This morning? Or last night? Traveling at night is dangerous.”
“He knew that coming with us would be dangerous.”
“Try not to get him killed,” I say. Elliott makes a show of scanning the street ahead of us, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I wasn’t trying to get him killed,” he says finally. “His ideals are misguided, but I don’t wish for him to die.”
“What would it take for you to trust him?” I ask. Because we need to somehow trust one another.
“What would it take for you to trust him?” he counters.
I would have to forget how he betrayed me.
“At least in a few nights the children will be in the city. If he falls out of line— well, we know his weakness.”
“I would never threaten Henry or Elise.”
“Then I know your weakness, too.” I wait for him indicate that he’s not serious, but his attention has shifted to the city around us.
Smoke rises from the next city street. At first I think another building is burning, but instead it seems to be coming from a series of contained campfires.
A village of dismal burlap tents has sprung up across what must have once been a park, and it spills over to cover the cracked foundations of a warehouse. Clotheslines are stretched between some of the tents, and a few brave vegetables are growing in pots. A dog barks at us from inside the perimeter.
“Can’t they find buildings to live in?” I ask. The city has always had enough empty buildings that most people can find at least partial shelter.
“Perhaps they think the buildings are contaminated in some way,” Elliott says, and I remember how the corpse collectors used to paint black scythes on doors. What happens when all the doors have been marked? Perhaps people will just abandon the city, whisper that it’s haunted, and live in tents.
“At least they are trying,” Elliott continues, “instead of just squatting in their ruined buildings with the dead. I can work with people who have the initiative to make their lives better.”
I don’t know how it happened, but I’m holding Elliott’s hand. Not clinging to it or allowing him to pull me along—my hand just somehow found its way into his.
We pass the burned shell of an apartment building. A paper is nailed to the charred remains of a door. I stop to reach for it with my free hand. The ink is red and ran in a bloody trail down the parchment.
DOWN WITH SCIENCE. KILL THE SCIENTIST.
I drop the paper. The tip of my finger is stained red. I wipe it inside the sleeve of my dress, where a stain is less likely to show, but the ink has soaked into my skin.
“They want to kill my father.”
“Do you blame them?”
I don’t answer him.
“I find it ironic . . . when I asked your father for information about the masks, he scorned my help. Your mother may have told him things that I’d done as a boy, and he judged me, but at the same time, he was never truly the hero he pretended to be. Was he?”
“He was to me,” I say quietly. “And I’m not going to stop thinking that until he looks me in the eye and tells me that when he made the virus”—this is the first time I’ve admitted aloud that I know he did it—“that it wasn’t an accident, that he wasn’t forced to—”
“Why does that matter? Thousands of people died either way.”
“I just need to know,” I say. “Wouldn’t you want . . . ?” I trail off. Elliott isn’t aware of the truth about his own father. I throw him a sidelong look and brace myself to tell him, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
“Your father is a hypocritical murderer whose only thought was the sake of discovery. Not the safety of the people.”
The words are ugly. And they could be true.
If I tell him about his own father now, it will seem as if I am simply retaliating.
We walk in silence for a long time. I try to get my bearings, to connect the maze of streets and buildings to the grids and squares that I memorized last night.
Looking up at a wrought-iron rail that surrounds a low balcony, I gasp. A dead man’s head, streaked with red, is in the window box, as if he was crawling out the window of his apartment and died before he made it.
We pass a series of scythes painted in the same garish red as the pamphlet calling for Father’s death. The same red as my fingertip. Malcontent’s sign.
Elliott scans the buildings that line our route very carefully. A pile of broken masks lies beside a charred brick wall. “Malcontent,” Elliott mutters. “If he has his way, only his faithful will survive.”
He stops and reaches into his pack. “Before we reach the tavern, I want to give you this.” If he gives back the diamond ring, I’m not sure what I will do. The first time he gave it to me, our relationship was fake. Now, I’m not sure what it is.
But instead of the ring, he pulls out a small handgun. A gun that can be concealed, like this one, is very rare and very expensive.
“Thank you.” I’m able to exclaim over the little gun more effusively than I ever could over the ring. The ivory handle matches the knife I keep in the top of my boot.
“It only holds two bullets. So shoot to kill and don’t miss.”
I nod, amazed that he bought me such a gift. That he’s thinking of my safety.
“You may be wondering where it was hidden, since it wasn’t in my pack last night.”
I look up. What gave away that I’d rummaged through his things? And is he truly laughing about it?
We really do deserve each other, Elliott and I.
“Keep it close,” he says. And we continue on.
Our footsteps echo against the paving stones. It seems this entire area has been emptied. I only see one corpse lying in a dilapidated doorway. But the marching of many feet resounds from nearby. The last time I heard that sound was from Malcontent’s men in the tunnels. Can Elliott and I hold off a whole troop of soldiers and live?
Elliott pulls me into a doorway and stands in front of me. The pounding feet draw closer. I grip my gun tightly, ready to fire.
A group of men turn the corner, and Elliott lets out a breath. He leaves our hiding place. “Don’t worry. These men are mine.”
I count twenty, in makeshift uniforms.
“Elliott, sir,” the one in the lead says. “We were heading to meet you at the tavern.”
“Let’s move.” Elliott motions the men forward, and I step out from the doorway. “I don’t want to linger in this area.”
“She’ll be going with us?” The soldier glances at me.
“Yes,” I say, holding his gaze.
Elliott smiles. “Araby isn’t afraid of less than reputable establishments.”
I don’t like the way he said my name, possessively, informally, as if his men should all know it. But I follow them down the street. As I turn the corner, I nearly run into the soldier in front of me, because everyone has abruptly halted.
Before us is a uniformed soldier, his gun drawn, the tip pressed to the head of a child.
CHAPTER NINE
THE BOY CAN’T BE OLDER THAN ELISE. SORES mar his forehead and left cheek. He’s obviously infected with the contagion. The soldier has his gun pressed so hard to the boy’s forehead—if he took it away, it would leave a mark.
Tears stream down the soldier’s face. He doesn’t look away from the child, even as Elliott speaks.
“What is the meaning of this?” His voice is calm.
“Tell him,” the soldier growls. His hand is beginning to tremble.
The boy’s eyes move to Elliott. “The reverend commands us to walk through the upper city, speaking to everyone. Touching them if possible.”
“You’re spreading the contagion.”
“Yes.” The child collapses to the sidewalk.
“This is what we are up against.” Elliott casts his voice so that all of the men behind can hear him. “Malcontent wants the city, even if that means infecting each and every one of us. Those who live with it, like his soldiers, can remain. The rest will die.”
I kneel down beside the boy. “Leave the city. Don’t ever come back.”
“I can’t,” the boy says. “He’ll send the Hunter for me.”
“Araby, he can’t be allowed to continue,” Elliott says.
He is not rational on this topic. Elliott is terrified of the spread of disease. It’s the one thing he’s never been able to plan ahead for, and he is enraged by the way Malcontent is using it. I don’t blame him. Malcontent’s intentions are horrible. His use of this child is vile. But fear and anger are not a good combination.
The soldier, sensing approval in Elliott’s words, refocuses on the boy, prepared to shoot.
“Put your gun down,” I say. “Please.”
He looks to Elliott. Elliott’s eyebrows go up. And they don’t go down, even when I add the “please.” He doesn’t like me commanding his soldiers any better than he likes me telling him what to do. But I can’t let them hurt this child. The way the man’s arm is shaking, I’m terrified that the gun will go off.
“Please, Elliott.” My voice rings out in the alley. “Think of April—”
“If we let him go, he’ll return tomorrow. Who knows how many people he’s already infected?” Elliott grabs me and crushes my face into his immaculate white shirt.
The gun fires.
I shove Elliott as hard as I can.
But the soldier shot wide. The gun falls to the ground with a clatter beside the boy, who looks up at us, eyes wide. Tears stream down the soldier’s face. But I’m afraid if the soldier couldn’t do it, Elliott will kill the boy himself.
“Take him back to the swamp,” I insist, standing between Elliott and the boy.
“We have to send a message to Malcontent that we won’t let his people attack us.”
“If everyone had masks, there wouldn’t be a reason to fear them.” I don’t move, even as Elliott steps toward us. “We should be saving people, not killing them.”
The soldiers shift, and the boy seems so small and lost, crouched beside the gun that was meant to kill him.
“Take him out of the city,” Elliott says finally. “We won’t stoop to Malcontent’s level, using children. But if any of you hear word of him, I want to know immediately.”
Across the street, someone opens their shutters and peers out. What do they make of so many men standing over a shaking child?
“If Malcontent’s followers are willing to leave the city, escort them to the periphery. Otherwise, shoot to kill. Burn the bodies. And if any of our men do not have functional masks, send them to me.”