The Hearts We Sold(3)
These were the people who tried to ward off the demons with signs and shouted words. Websites sold supposed relics and holy water. Some people took up swords and guns, and went hunting. There were literal crusades going on until the US government declared such endeavors illegal. Rumors about Homeland Security setting up their own occult branch flew across the Internet, made all the more plausible by the fact that the feds didn’t comment on it.
Dee found the footage of the original press conference on a blog. She hadn’t watched it when it first aired; her father told her that watching too much television was a sure way to end up a loser—and while she wasn’t sure she believed him, she also didn’t want to risk his annoyance by turning it on.
Dee glanced about the computer room—empty and safe—before she hit the play button on the video.
“We don’t hire out to criminals or governments,” said a woman with cool gray eyes and a polished smile. “We won’t even work for minor officials.” She turned that smile on the conference host, and he withered beneath it. “We don’t get involved in politics. And above all, we do not harm humans.”
“Why not?” the man managed to say.
“Because we live here, too,” said the woman. “And you humans have a frightening tendency to wreck things when you get scared. We will not involve ourselves in your wars, in your petty conflicts. You have nothing to fear from us. We only offer covenants to individuals. Also,” she added, turning her eyes on the camera, “we don’t work for corporations, either.”
“How do we know you’re real?” said one audience member, echoing Dee’s own thoughts.
The woman smiled, gesturing off camera. “I don’t expect you to believe me. So I’ll direct that question to one of my colleagues.”
The screen flickered, and then changed to the scene of a hospital room. The conference host’s voice boomed out, saying that they were now broadcasting a live feed of a nearby hospital.
A beautiful man stood next to a bed. The camera slowly panned over the image of a child—unconscious, breathing through a tube, and utterly still.
The man gave the camera a steady look. “Doctor?”
A doctor stepped into the spotlight; his face shone with sweat. “This girl was in a car accident a week ago. She’s on life support—”
“Her mother,” said the man, interrupting, “has agreed to a covenant.”
The camera spun around, came to focus on a middle-aged woman. She was sitting in a chair and looked oddly lopsided. It had taken Dee a second to realize it was because the woman’s left sleeve was hollow.
“Now,” said the man, and touched a hand to the girl’s chest.
Later, people would claim it was bad special effects or the camera guy panicking. Because the screen went fuzzy, jerking away, and seconds later, when the scene was finally visible again, there was a ten-year-old girl choking on a tube and doctors rushing around her, and the desperate, horribly relieved sobbing of the mother.
Everyone had wondered at the demon who had made such a miracle happen. But the thing Dee fixated on was that empty sleeve, the arm traded away. On the person who would do that for another.
To her, that was the most unbelievable thing.
THREE
D ee always showered after her community service. She hated how the smell of antiseptic and plastic clung to her skin, so when she walked into her dormitory she made a sharp left and strode into the girls’ restroom. And today, of all days, she looked forward to the sensation of newness that accompanied her after every shower.
Five in the afternoon wasn’t exactly prime bathroom time; the room’s only other occupants were two seniors. One was bent over a sink, a box of hair dye in her friend’s hand. Dee skirted past and ducked into the showers.
She washed off the remnants of the hospital, scrubbing away the sensation of dusty rubber gloves and the scent of bleach. Finished, she bundled her mass of hair into a towel, slipped into her robe, and hurried out of the bathroom.
The hallway was painted a cheerful yellow, with rough, industrial-strength carpet. Pictures adorned the walls—previous deans, news articles about the school’s alumni, and a large corkboard crammed full of papers and thumbtacks. She paused there for a moment, her gaze roaming over the hall.
That was the best part about boarding school. It wasn’t the fancy meal hall or the teachers or the new computers. It was the fact that when she came home, it was to a tiny room with beds shoved in opposite corners. It was often cluttered with books and dirty clothes, and it smelled like old carpet and burned popcorn.
Dee loved it.
Her roommate, Gremma, sat on her bed wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt with the periodic table on it. Several stuffed bears were scattered over her desk—all of which had been vivisected and sewn up again.
Gremma had been Dee’s roommate since the second semester of freshman year, after Gremma’s first roommate had complained to the dean. Dee hadn’t understood why anyone would go to such lengths. With her bright red hair and brighter lipstick, Gremma looked like one of those quirky, dimply girls one might see in a romantic comedy.
But Gremma’s first words to Dee had been, “Let’s get three things out of the way. First, you make fun of my name and I make your life miserable—my father wanted a boy named Greg and my mom wanted a ballerina named Emma. So they compromised. Second, I like girls. Third, I have an antique set of surgical scalpels hidden under my mattress. If you have a problem with any one of those facts, you should say something now.”