When she turns back to me, I notice the way her strawberry-blonde hair catches the light, and for the briefest moment, she looks like Phoebe again. I lower my gun. “I can’t do this.”

  “Because you love me.” She grins.

  “Because it’s not who I am.”

  She laughs. “Stop hiding behind the mask, O. Everyone you’ve been wearing it for is dead. This is who you always wanted to be. That’s why you joined the House in the first place. You didn’t have to, remember? Me and you, we’re the same. We both failed to be the people our parents wanted us to be. We’re both monsters to the rest of the world.”

  I can’t take this anymore. I can’t shoot her, but I can’t listen to her, either. My head is throbbing with every new revelation. “What do you want, Mary? Just tell me what you want.”

  She draws close to me again. “Isn’t it obvious, mon coeur? I want the same thing I’ve always wanted—you.”

  The silence that follows is only broken when Joshua bursts into the room. He aims his weapon at each corner in turn. “Is the room clear?” he asks as though it wasn’t already obvious. “Is she a hostage?”

  Neither Mary nor I answer right away. I know why she doesn’t, but it’s less clear why my own lips are sealed. It’s too hard to see her as anyone other than Phoebe. Finally, Mary pulls one black lace glove off her hand with her teeth. “Thank God you’re here,” she says to Joshua. “I thought we were goners for sure. They’re crazy, totally bonkers, these Seditio people. Just look at what they made me wear.”

  Joshua nods once and approaches her. “We’ll get you out of here,” he says. I want to scream at him to stay back. She’s not who he thinks she is, but I can’t. Something won’t let me do anything to harm her. Every time I think about taking her down, shooting her in the head like everyone else, I freeze. My imagination won’t even progress beyond her death.

  “There’s just one thing,” she whispers. “I have the source. They told me if I gave it to you, they’d kill me and everyone I loved. Can you promise me your protection?”

  Don’t believe her! I want to shout, but I don’t. Joshua looks less than sure as his eyes dart to me and back again. Finally, he reaches out a hand. “Give it to us. We’ll protect you.”

  “I knew you would.” She smiles a bright, warm smile and digs into the pocket of her dress. Before Jacob can even react, she’s slit the palm of her hand with a razor and grabbed his wrist. She yanks him close, her blood dripping down his arm.

  “What the fuck!” he shouts. But it’s too late. I don’t know how I know it; I just do. Mary’s fingernails dig into his skin, breaking it just enough. It doesn’t take much, and Joshua’s face begins to contort as his skin grows ashen.

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” Mary says, still clinging to his wrist. “All this time, you were looking for a little glass vial. You didn’t even imagine the source could be a person, did you? But it was always the Blood of Mary, and all of you were too stupid to see it.”

  Joshua doubles over and spits up bile. Mary finally lets him fall to the ground. Then she sucks her wound and slips her glove back on. “Poor thing,” she says. “He really had no idea.” She frowns and meets my eyes. “I never meant to kill anyone in the beginning. It just… happened.” It’s like she needs me to understand her, and I can’t begin to fathom why. “Year after year, it got easier and easier.”

  “You… Your parents,” I stammer.

  “Yes, I killed them. It was easier than you’d think.” She kicks at Joshua, who’s spitting up blood now. “My own parents injected me with this… thing, whatever it is. They found out it would survive in my body, and they decided to make me into the monster I am today. They just couldn’t help themselves. So, who’s the bad guy, really? Don’t answer that because I already know. It’s no one, O. The universe is chaos, and we’ve got to embrace it if we’re ever going to stay sane. Stop trying to control the uncontrollable. Stop trying to fabricate order. Let it all burn like it wants to.” She grins as Joshua begins to wheeze and shake. “It so desperately wants to destroy itself, our world. Let’s help it along.”

  In the hall outside, I hear heavy footsteps. “Eden,” I mutter. It has to be him. He’s going to take one look at the scene and slit Mary Denau’s throat. It’s what I would have done a week ago. I just don’t know anymore. I grit my teeth, point my weapon at Joshua’s head, and quickly fire before Eden finds his way here.

  In the moments between the gunshot and Eden’s entrance, Mary whispers, “You really do love me, don’t you?” The smile that graces her face would win anyone over to her side, no matter what her side was. She’s happy, and I want her to be happy. It’s the only thing I really care about anymore.

  Eden barges into the room, True Winter at the ready. He quickly surveys the scene, notices Joshua’s ruined body, and comes to the only reasonable conclusion. “Did you do this? Or was it her?” His eyes narrow at Mary, and I can see the pieces coming together for him.

  “I did it,” I answer before he can question either of us further.

  Eden’s throat works as he swallows what must be a rising wave of grief. Joshua was like family to him, as was everyone in the House of David. I was never his only brother. I wasn’t even the most important one. “Why?” he asks. His voice is just a rush of air.

  I don’t answer him. “Run, Mary. Get out of here.”

  “Mary?” Eden’s eyes dart to Mary, and he points his scythe at her. “She’s Mary Denau?”

  Again, I don’t answer. I step between my brother and the only woman I’ve ever loved. “I said get out of here! Fucking run, Mary! You win, okay? I love you more than I hate what you did.” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “You’re all I have left.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “Yes, you are. This is my fight and my price to pay.”

  She murmurs, “Don’t die for me, mon coeur.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” I point my gun at my brother’s head.

  “Fine.” Mary pouts. “Go to your death if that’s what you want.” Then she leans close to my ear and whispers, “I’ll come find you in hell.”

  While Mary eases around us, Eden stares down the barrel of my gun. Tears gather in his eyes, but he won’t let them fall. “Why?” he repeats when Mary is gone.

  I don’t have any more energy in me. “I don’t know.”

  He tightens his grip on his scythe. “You don’t know? You killed a comrade, and you don’t know? He was family.”

  “Not mine.”

  With that, Eden’s tears dry up, and he growls, “I’m taking you in.”

  “No.” I grit my teeth and hold the gun far more steadily than I would have thought myself capable. “Only one of us is walking out of this room.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Fight me.”

  “Your suicidal tantrum is noted, Rion. Now put the gun down.”

  I hate that he thinks of me as a child. “It’s only suicide if I lose,” I say.

  “And if you win?”

  “Then I’ll have killed the Grim Reaper himself.” I smile as he begins to circle me. “That’ll make me some kind of hero, won’t it?”

  “It’ll make you an idiot.” He spits the words at me. “This isn’t a game.”

  “And I’m not playing.” To demonstrate, I lower my weapon enough to shoot him four times in the chest. He stumbles back, and I push in, past True Winter, until I get my hands on his short sword. I yank it out of its scabbard and back away again. “Now we’re even.” I holster my gun and prepare to meet him where he lives, in a close-range fight.

  He doesn’t want to do this. Everything in him resists it. And all I can think is how his newfound sentimentality might give me a real chance to beat him. I am a heartless piece of shit. I’ve made up my mind. I have no more words for him. I roundhouse kick him in the chest. He stumbles back and lands on his ass.

  “You’ve gotten better,” he says, panting.

  I slash downward. He tries to block the blade, but it swipes his right leg, and he grunts in pain. As I pull away again, I cut across his arm. He manages to push me, and I fall back. I know I can beat him. He’s not just flattering me. I have improved after all the missions I’ve been on, after all the men and women I’ve killed. It’s likely Eden Dowler spent the last year training his own executioner. The irony is too delicious.

  He stands and looks down at his bloody arm. “Fine. If it’s the Grim Reaper you want, it’s the Grim Reaper you’ll get.”

  I have enough time to roll my eyes before he charges me. I slash at him again, but he blocks me with his blade. The sound of metal on metal rings in my ears as he headbutts me. I fall back, catching myself on the dresser behind me. I stab at him, but he ducks under my blade and slashes my chest with the concave edge of his scythe.

  I thought I knew how sharp True Winter was, but I guess I underestimated it. It easily cuts through STP armor. I fall to my knees, gazing down at the new wound across my chest. It’s bigger than I expect. It burns, and the blood… My vision starts to blur.

  “I’m sorry I failed you,” he says as he walks up to me. “I ruined your life.”

  Somehow, I manage to crack a smile. “Nah… You only showed me… how weak I was.”

  My world tunnels and fades. I know I’m bleeding out, but all I feel is calm. All I imagine is seeing my family again. Finally, I know what all those men who died fighting Eden know. Death is a presence that soothes. I drop to the floor and keep on falling. Down and down. Deeper and deeper. The last thing I hear is Eden’s voice. “You were never weak, Orion. You just…”

  But even he fades away in the end.

  13: truth.

  Mary

  O,

  It’s funny; no matter where I go or who I meet, people think they know me better than I know myself. They tell me why I do things, what my goals are, and exactly what kind of monster they think I am. They never get it right. It takes more than a little imagination to understand someone as well as people claim to understand me. It takes history.

  Put yourself in my shoes. Imagine you were born on December 13th, which your father regularly reminds you is an unlucky date, the evil before the dawn of Christ. Your father is unapologetically religious, your mother staunchly on the side of science. They never stop arguing (spirited debate, they call it, but you know better), and the thing they most love arguing about is you. Maybe your ambition upsets your father, and your tendency toward fanaticism bothers your mother. And maybe they blame each other for those perceived flaws.

  Then, one day, a miracle comes along, a religious artifact with a scientific explanation and just enough mystery to allow for the “god of the gaps” to step in. Suddenly, an object unites your parents. Unfortunately, it unites them against you. Maybe your mother begins testing the microorganisms found on the artifact, mixing them with blood slides to see what happens. Maybe she tests indiscriminately. She uses the blood of everyone in her employ. She uses a slide of your father’s blood and even your own. It’s just for a simple test, you understand. Nothing too serious.

  And then, another miracle. While the microorganisms destroy the blood cells on every slide they occupy, they seem to leave yours alone. In fact, they seem to thrive in your blood, having an almost symbiotic relationship with it. Your mother is baffled and wishes to conduct more tests. Your father believes you to be some kind of holy being—an angel, maybe, a saint of some kind. His faith is pure, and to prove just how pure it is, he injects you with the microorganisms.

  Look! You survived. How unlikely is that? What a miracle? Praise God in heaven, right? Except you don’t become the religious leader your father would like you to be. You don’t respect his faith, and you don’t respect the work of your mother. She’s too reckless. She doesn’t think things through before she acts.

  Your father, ashamed you’re still the sinner you always were, keeps the miracle that is you hidden from his stupid secret organization. He doesn’t want them to know how big of a failure you are. He takes you out of school and tells all your friends you can’t play with them anymore.

  Maybe to counter your loneliness, your parents give you a string of pets—a hamster, a bird, a kitten. But animals sometimes bite or scratch or claw. They get frightened and act without thinking. And the second they draw blood from you, it’s over. They die. One after the other after the other. Eventually, you can’t take a step in your own backyard without treading on some poor creature’s grave.

  You hate your mother for including your blood in her tests without telling you what they really meant. And you hate your father for treating you like an abomination, a demon in the flesh. Now they’re both afraid of you, and they should be. Because all those pets gave you a taste for death, and it’s perfectly within your nature to demonstrate exactly why your parents should have thought before they acted.

  It’s so easy to kill them. No matter how wicked they’ve decided you must be, they never thought you capable of this. And it only takes a couple drops slipped into the wine before dinner. Like communion. “This is my body.”

  Laugh. It’s okay. It’s funny.

  Imagine a man you’ve never met comes to be your guardian. His name is Uncle Don, though you doubt he’s any real relation of yours. He seems to hold a high position in your father’s stupid secret organization. Don teaches you everything you need to know about the group called Seditio. Mainly, it’s just a reaction to another organization called the House of David, which has appointed itself to police international religion.

  Uncle Don likes you a lot. No, I mean he really likes you. He calls you his little Lolita, and then he laughs when you look horrified. “Don’t be so serious, Mary. Learn to take a joke.” You tell him it isn’t funny, but he keeps on saying it anyway. Because it isn’t really a joke, is it? It’s a test to see how you’ll react. So, you start giggling when he calls you his little Lolita, and you start touching him whenever you can, brushing past his knee, laying a hand on his arm, blushing. And by god, that man gives you everything.

  He tells you about the Chains of Peter, the artifact that birthed Seditio, and all the artifacts that followed. Seditio created them. Any rusty, old object the microorganisms thrived on, Seditio made famous. They’d give it a holy-sounding name and make up a story about how it belonged to one of the apostles or some bullshit like that.

  Once you have everything you need from Uncle Don, you kill him like you did your parents. You have no doubt it’s the right thing to do. Can’t have Uncle Don finding another Lolita when he’s done with you.

  After that, it’s easy to declare yourself the new leader of Seditio. Your father led it before you, after all, and as far as you can tell, he did a decent job. But of course, the least organized organization in the world has to fight about it. Your rival is a man by the name of Caldwell Phillip. He’s been with Seditio for a while now, and he’s pretty sure he can run it better than you. He’s wrong.

  What better way to prove your worth than show them all what you can do? So, you start a cult. If the rest of the world had any idea how easy that is to do, they’d be tempted to start one themselves. Let me tell you how.

  First, find yourself someone who’s not firing on all cylinders. For example, maybe you run into a guy named Marco while vacationing in California. Marco is ripe for the picking. He’s an addict, always high, and prone to religious visions. It’s so easy to put on a white robe and come to him one night when he’s stoned out of his mind. It’s easy to convince him you’re the Virgin Mary handing him a vial of her own blood with which to bless any disciples he gains.

  You tell Marco that any righteous man who drinks the blood will receive the gift of eternal life. But he must wait until the time is right. He must amass a large following first because the blood will weed out sinners, and no one will take it after they realize what it does. You prove the blood won’t hurt the righteous by tasting some of it yourself. You let a drop dangling from your finger fall onto the tip of your tongue. It tastes like power.

  Marco takes the vial eagerly, but you warn him not to taste the blood until he’s cleansed his sin by offering God a massive congregation. When he gives that gift, he will surely be counted among the righteous. Marco does exactly as you instruct.

  Can you believe it? A huge congregation, all dead. Not quite Jonestown, but it’s enough to earn you a seat at the head of Seditio’s table. It’s also enough to earn you the respect of the group’s deadliest attack dog, Caldwell “Whiteface” Phillip. And not just respect. As the months pass, you start to realize his attachment is far from professional. He’ll pass you in the hall singing, “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” Maybe he wants you to answer with the rest of the nursery rhyme, but you never do.

  His attention, while unwanted, is not useless. His obsession grants you a certain amount of control over him (as much as a man like that can be controlled). Instead of kicking him out or killing him, you decide to use him.

  Whiteface becomes your best weapon over the years, and he follows you everywhere you go. When the stress of the job finally sends you running to your grandmother in Mobile, he follows. And he obeys, and obeys, and obeys. For a little while, you think maybe that’s what love is, and then you meet someone who teaches you otherwise. He’s beautiful, this boy, untouched and unbroken. And he always thinks everything all the way through. He calls himself Orion and offers to show you the city, but it isn’t just the city he shows you in the end. No, he shows you his secret face, too.

  Turns out, perfect little Orion is wearing a mask just like you are, only he doesn’t realize it. It’s so hard not to tell him how alike you are, especially after you start to really fall for him. If you tell him, maybe he’ll hate you. Maybe it’ll scare him so badly, he’ll run from you and never look back. So, you begin to devise a plan, elaborate perhaps, but what fun is simplicity? You take the Chains of Peter from your own organization and plant them in the Bachman family garage. Then you alert the House of David, and don’t they just come running for it.