It was also a curiously intimate sensation, one she did not pull away from. She studied her emotions with rare detachment, questioning why she felt the way she did, with a creature— sometimes a man—she barely knew. She had no answer to give herself. Only that it felt right, and safe.
Maggie placed her palm on the cool ground and glanced up at the sky. Stars dazzled beyond the tree branches. She was surprised to see them. Her eyesight had improved so much, she had forgotten it was night.
She turned briefly to look at the building behind her, heard a flapping sound, and felt cool air move across her neck and face.
When she glanced over her shoulder, Maggie found him gone.
The doors to the building were unlocked. Maggie ventured inside with some uneasiness, as she usually did most abandoned structures. Twenty years was a long time, and closed spaces could be dangerous if animals had taken up residence, or if other people were hiding, or had beaten her to the job. A good scavenge was never that safe. There was too much at stake. She wondered, even now, if all her junkyard belongings were still in place. She trusted most folk in Olo to do right by her, but there were a handful capable of small acts of theft.
It was very dark inside, but Maggie’s eyes adjusted almost immediately, and she found herself staring at an interior far larger than any she had ever seen. Long aisles spread away from her, and the ceilings were high. She stood beside a line of large mesh baskets, packed tightly together, one inside the other.
So still. So quiet. A dead silence. Maggie imagined she was the first person in twenty years to enter this place, and her skin prickled with chills. She clutched the shark teeth in one hand, while the other grazed the sledgehammer hanging from her tool belt. Slowly, she walked, and passed clothing hanging from racks—more clothing than she had ever seen, and of tremendous variation. Twenty years had left some things ragged, and dust and cobwebs lay heavy, but Maggie could see enough. She took in rows and shelves of jeans and coats and sweaters, and then socks and underwear. Trading just this much would keep her busy for years.
That would have been enough, but there was more. She passed aisles full of makeup, which she recognized from ads in the old magazines that her grandfather had kept, but she ignored the powders and lipsticks for the great variety of medicines displayed nearby. Most of them, she figured, were too old to do any good, but the diversity amazed her nonetheless. She marveled at what had been lost. The government issued aspirin and a narrow range of antibiotics, but most people had taken to relying on herbalists for treatment. Death took care of the rest.
Maggie wandered through aisles full of toys—stuffed animals partially devoured by mice, staring dolls encased in plastic, small cars for plastic men; as well as hoops and balls, and bats. She found bicycles and gardening supplies. She discovered sections devoted to blankets, curtains, and pillows, pots and pans, and thick glass bowls. She stumbled upon countless tools she wished she could carry out with her, still gleaming and new inside dusty boxes.
She found guns at the back of the store. Of all the varied things she had seen thus far, these looked the most picked over. Still, there were rifles and smaller weapons locked behind glass; and, more important, bullets—boxes and boxes of them. Enough to cause an uproar in trading, and to keep her fed for a long time. And draw all kinds of unwanted attention. Bullets were as rare as hen’s teeth—as rare as gasoline. The government controlled both, and shared neither.
Something rustled close by. Maggie turned, staring into the shadows. It had been perfectly quiet until now.
Two aisles down, in the opposite direction, someone hooted softly. It was not an animal. Not a bird. Not her crow. The voice was masculine, though, and full of quiet laughter.
Her first instinct was to run, and she almost did, but she gritted her teeth and tried to focus past her hammering heart. Guns everywhere, but not a single one she could use. Even assuming that not much dust had penetrated the glass cases, she could not risk using any of those weapons without cleaning them first. Twenty years was too long to take a chance, even if desperate. Bullets could jam, or go off inside the gun.
Maggie pulled her sledgehammer free and hefted it in her hands. Farther away, she heard a soft humming melody, and in another direction, closer, a heavy crash made her jump.
Surrounded. She was surrounded.
“Did you truly think you could come to this city without us feeling your presence?” called a soft familiar voice behind her. Maggie turned, and found Irdu leaning against a rack filled with long, thin metal rods, clubbed at one end. He watched her, his black hair spilling down the left side of his pale, sharp face. His eyes glittered.
“We know our own,” he whispered. A chill rode down her spine, and with it, a terrible dread. She could not breathe, and when a pale hand grabbed her arm from behind, lights flickered in her vision. Her fingers closed numbly around her sledgehammer.
Maggie did not think. She twisted in that hard grip, swinging with all her might. Solid iron connected with a very human face, and all she saw in that split second was black hair flying. Bone smashed as the entire side of the man’s head caved in. Blood sprayed from his nose and mouth, spattering her cheeks and clothing.
He let go. Maggie ran but did not get far before men moved in, graceful and low to the ground, like wolves. Hands snared her legs. She swung wildly, striking good, clean blows. No one let go, though, and she fought desperately for control over the sledgehammer as someone much stronger began prying it from her hand. She bit and clawed, searching blindly for his eyes.
Someone yanked her hair, jerking her head so hard her neck made a cracking sound. A fist connected with her face.
Everything went dark.
SEVEN
Pain found Maggie first, even in sleep. She dreamed of it as steel needles pricking her skin, sewing wires in her flesh: her ankles and wrists, and the sides of her face. She dreamed she’d been tied to a steel bar, as giant hands yanked her strings and made her dance. Alone, except for a steel crow, frozen on a floating branch—staring, because his eyes were all he had left of his flesh.
She woke up. Disoriented, head throbbing, so thirsty her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She saw a pale ceiling above her, trimmed in dark wood. Shades of golden light flickered unevenly; small candles burning beside her on the carpeted floor. She smelled something sweet.
Maggie turned her head sideways and found herself staring at long aisles of shelved books. It was a remarkable, unexpected sight. She had many books, more than almost anyone in Olo, except for old man Reeves, who lived near town and ran his own personal library. But these numbers were countless, overwhelming; and though Maggie had been told of bookstores, she had not imagined their existence. Not like this.
She was untied. Carefully she rolled on her side, trying not to wince as she pushed herself into a sitting position.
Her head began throbbing again, making her nauseous, but she forced herself to focus, and stood. Her tool belt was gone, as was her sledgehammer. She tried working up enough spit to moisten her dry mouth, but all she succeeded in doing was making herself sick.
Maggie turned her head slowly. She was not alone. Irdu stood beside a table covered in neatly arranged piles of dusty books. One of her steel puppets dangled from his pale hands. He manipulated the strings with care—little arms twitching, feet dancing through the air. Candlelight seemed to give the toy a spectral power, as though it might come to life.
“Amazing,” he said quietly, “how some things never change. The world dies, and yet we still find room in our hearts for wonder.”
“Children deserve that much,” Maggie rasped painfully, unsure what to do, except to engage him; and worse, feeling stupid about it. “Do you have any of children of your own?”
“Rarely,” he said, which was an odd answer. He tore his gaze from the puppet and finally looked at her. “It is just as rare to find the children of others.”
Maggie let those words sink in, watching his cold gaze study her face as though he expected some reaction; as if his words had been calculated to get one.
She tried to show nothing, and instead pulled the heavy necklace out from underneath her shirt. The shark teeth were cold against her palm, but holding them made her feel stronger. She dangled the necklace in front of him, watching the teeth catch the candlelight. “Where’s the old woman who wore this?”
Irdu’s face darkened with surprise, and then distaste. “My brother should have destroyed that thing.”
“You used it to bring me here.”
“No,” he said, tossing the puppet at her feet. “I did not.” Irdu turned and walked away, down another aisle.
Maggie hesitated, staring at the puppet collapsed in a heap, and then followed. “What do you mean by that? Your … brother … was wearing this necklace.”
Irdu turned, so suddenly and with such speed that she could not stop herself from running into him. He slammed her up against a bookcase, his cold hands sliding up her throat, into her hair. His gaze burned through her.
“That is no simple necklace,” he whispered. “That is a repudiation. An abomination. You would do well not to admire its previous owner.”
“She—” Maggie began, but Irdu covered her mouth with his, kissing her hard. His mouth was as cold as she remembered, and as draining, but this time something rose up within her—a spark of heat—and without thinking, she rocked forward, exhaling sharply.
Irdu broke away, stumbling backward. He touched his mouth as though stung, and stared at her with narrowed eyes.
“Good,” he finally said, but his expression was not in agreement. He turned again, more slowly, as though unsteady, and began walking down the bookstore aisles. When his back was to her, Maggie touched her own mouth. Her lips tingled, but not with pleasure, and deep down in her stomach, hunger rumbled—a different kind of hunger, vast and yawning.
She followed him, fingers trailing against the soft spines of dusty books. Maybe twenty years was not so long after all, she thought, noticing how well the books had stayed preserved, despite cobwebs and time. So many stories. So many secrets and histories, wrapped up in fantasy. Such lovely lies.
Candles dotted the tops of the shelves, burning like small stars. Irdu led Maggie to a small area with tile floors, filled with tables and chairs. Even more candles covered the tables—more than she had seen in a long time—and mugs lined small shelves in the wall, as if placed there for decoration. A large glass case sat on a long counter filled with odd-looking machines. Inside the case were jars of preserves, dried meat, cheese, and bread. Some of the food looked as though it had come from her belongings.
Five men lounged around that small area, fewer than she remembered seeing on the road. Several were reading books by candlelight, feet propped up on chairs. Others were playing chess. All of them seemed relaxed, but there was a coiled quality in their long, lean bodies that was careless, cold, and lethal. Most wore black, chrome details glinting in the glow cast by the candlelight.
The men were so much alike, it was difficult to tell them apart. They shared the same long dark hair and aquiline noses, pale skin, and sharp cheeks. Brothers or cousins, perhaps. Only one man was distinctly different, and he wore a cape of black feathers around his neck. Maggie had a feeling about where those feathers had come from.
One side of his head was a mess. His cheek and jaw had smashed so far inward, she wondered how he lived—let alone stayed conscious. Blood covered his entire face, and his hair had matted into tangled clumps. But he was sitting up, staring at her, and holding one of her whirly-gigs and blowing on it, blades spinning gently. All those men stared at her, until she felt like the focus of one giant eye—the men, a single entity, not individuals; a force, hungry and strange.
She stood before them, trying to act bold and brave, and glanced at Irdu. His eyes were as black as the inside of a cave located ten miles under; unfathomably, inescapably dark, without light or even the smallest inner glow. Dead eyes. Cold.
“Welcome to our home,” he said quietly. “One of many, for we are rootless, and old as the wind.”
“Where are the people you took?” Maggie asked. “The women from Olo, the folk from Dubois? Have you hurt them?”
Irdu’s expression did not change, but the other men looked at one another, and faint, knowing smiles touched their mouths. Chess pieces clicked, and several books were put facedown. She could not see what those men were reading, but the spines were thick and creased, and their fingers were gentle upon the covers.
An odd sight. Maggie could still see them in her dreams, their heads thrown back, darkness spilling from their mouths—and somehow she managed not to flinch in revulsion when Irdu dragged
