Arch-Conspirator(15)

“Bright out,” he said in greeting. “Not good for us.”

“I’m cursed, haven’t you heard?”

Haemon smiled, wry. “I don’t believe in curses.”

“Good for you,” I said. “So what’s the plan here?”

He shrugged. “I arranged a distraction earlier.”

“You arranged it … how?”

“Just trust me. Let’s go.”

We walked across the courtyard and down the hallway to the kitchen, where a few of the staff were sitting, playing cards, a pile of dried corn kernels in the middle of the table serving as chips. Haemon’s hand slid into mine, and my shock was the only thing that kept me from pulling away.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “Just sneaking out the back.”

I tried for a smile, but it didn’t feel right. He tugged me toward the door and I tripped after him, into the alley behind the house. It smelled like rot there, and broken glass crunched under my shoe soles.

His hand slipped away.

“Can’t believe I forgot about poker night,” he said.

“Poker night?”

“Every week they get together and play—I’ve joined them a few times.”

It didn’t fit in with my image of him, sitting at that grubby table in the kitchen where the cooks sat to peel potatoes after a long day, his elbows propped, sleeves rolled up, cards in hand. Even now he was too stiff for that, his shoulders pulled back in an imitation of a soldier’s posture.

“You any good?”

He laughed. “No. Lost all my corn, every time. But as you can see, it helps to make the right people like you.”

We reached the end of the alley and started down the street that led around the wide house. Ahead of us, obscured now by buildings, was the street where my brother’s body was displayed. The moon glinted on half a dozen windows. The Extractor dug into my hip with each step.

The road bent around a corner of Kreon’s house where the plaster had broken, showing the stone underneath. The foundation here was cracked, the building weathered by time even though it was the finest one in the city. Not even Kreon could escape deterioration. It was hard to imagine a time when it hadn’t been this way—when plants grew untended in the wild, maintained by their own seeds spreading; when the plains beyond the city were overrun with animals that we had not bred ourselves; when genes persisted through the generations, presenting a person with their grandmother’s brow, their great-grandfather’s jaw. Everything required effort now. Everything required editing.

The street opened up in front of us. I saw the contours of the soldiers guarding it—not spread out as they likely were during the day, each one taking a corner, but gathered together around a small flame, lighting their cigarettes. Several yards behind them, a dark lump on the ground, was Polyneikes.

“Wait here,” Haemon said to me. “Until they’re distracted.”

“How will I know?”

“It won’t be subtle.”

I stood in the middle of the street, in the dark, and waited. Haemon put his hands in his pockets and strolled toward the guards. They startled when they recognized him, like they had been caught in an indiscretion by Kreon himself. Haemon only waved a hand, dismissive.

“Got a spare?” he said to them.

One of them produced a fresh cigarette, and another held out his own so Haemon could light it. I saw a curtain shift in the building across the way, and then, somewhere down the block, there was a huge, resonant boom. The ground rumbled. A plume of fire stretched up from the street, followed by a cloud of smoke. Screams echoed through the city. Haemon looked at the guards with alarm.

“What the fuck—” one of the guards said.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Haemon said. “Go!”

“But—” another said, gesturing behind him to Polyneikes’ shape on the ground.

“I’m fully capable of watching a dead body,” Haemon said. “Go!”

I started toward the square, cautious at first, and then as the guards took off in the direction of the explosion, I burst into a run. I tripped into the square and fell to my knees next to Polyneikes’ body.

Time slowed as I looked at him. I heard my heartbeat, the twin thuds distinct, valves closing, valves opening.

Thump, thump.

He still looked like himself, but his body was covered in a layer of pale dust. His arms rested at an awkward angle across his torso, as if he had been dragged out here and then dropped without ceremony. His shoes were gone. His shirt was soaked with blood.

Thump, thump.

I reached for him, unable to stop myself. His wrist felt wrong, too cold and too stiff. I choked on a sob as I lowered his arm, tucking it close to his side. His skin was discolored, from his imminent decomposition or from the moonlight, I could not tell.

I had not said the prayers over my parents’ bodies. Ismene had done that. It was, of course, women’s work. Usher in life, usher in death. But I found I had the words memorized anyway.

Thump, thump.

I mouthed them over my brother. We did not beg for things in prayers—that was for Followers of Lazarus. Ours were a list of demands. Make his rest easy. Weave his soul into his body, to be preserved and renewed. Keep the best of him and let the worst slip away.

I had to hurry, but I felt like I was moving through water as I pulled the Extractor from beneath my jacket. I wrapped both hands around it. A shout rang out across the courtyard. Someone charged toward me. I pressed a button in the side of the Extractor, and a needle extended from the bottom of it, so it looked like a giant syringe. I held it over my brother’s stomach.