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  “Don’t look back.” Buckner’s muttered command still carried, and I heard one or two men in the audience snicker. I fought the desire to turn my head as we passed row upon row of full pews—how large was the Order, really?—until finally, we reached the other side of the room. A long, red velvet curtain pooled over the elevated edge of what might be a stage.

  “Welcome.”

  I was pretty sure the Cronus was speaking, but Buckner didn’t move, and so I fought the urge to turn around and face the crowd behind us. Instead, I let the commanding voice float over to me from behind, and took strength in the expanse of red velvet in front of me.

  “We are here to honor the passing of a Marker, and one who has proven himself to be a considerable fighter within the Order. You may raise the curtain now.”

  Squeaky wheels protested. A bright sliver appeared at the bottom of the curtain and widened until it was like the rising of the sun, filling the room with light. And then the velvet rose high enough to reveal a wooden table, and on it was Chris’s small frame, sad and broken in its aloneness, and I had to stifle a sob. He was cradled in a shallow wooden coffin. A slab of wood that had to be the lid stood on its side on the floor.

  Buckner walked up onto the stage. I followed him, somehow knowing this was my duty as his apprentice. He turned, and I turned, but the lighting on the stage was too bright to make out any of the faces of the audience. Instead, they were a series of dark blobs. It wasn’t that different from how I usually saw them—not as faces, or as men, but as unnamed shapes—as Markers.

  And then I saw two of the blobs were moving, somehow—streaking toward the center from either side. They flickered as my eyes picked up the movement. Finally, they reached the middle and came up the row Buckner and I had come up, and their faces came into view.

  Of course. It was Sven and Shawn. Who else, really, could it be?

  They ascended the steps. Buckner took each one by the hands, just a brief moment of contact, before they took their places next to Chris’s body.

  “You may proceed.” The disembodied voice of the Cronus unnerved me, but then Buckner took over, his old, gruff rasp somehow fitting. It rang out, stronger than I had ever heard it.

  “We are here today to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of one of our own. If there are any here that would object to bestowing honors upon our fallen comrade, speak now.”

  The room was silent. Although I couldn’t see anybody’s faces, I knew the expression they must have held—for although I had not long known Chris, how could such a good-hearted man have wronged anybody? I could sense the wave of grief that passed around the room, like a dark, breathing fog.

  “Now, we will recount his moment of death.”

  Part of me pulled away as Buckner described the fight with the glitch, and instead of listening to his words, I instead relived my own experiences. I shuddered briefly at the image of the ghastly thing, the way it sucked all light and warmth into it like a black hole. When Buckner’s story finally arrived at Chris’s last breaths, at the way the man’s pulse had faded away under his hands, the room suddenly came back into focus.

  “Now, those who had the honor of watching our comrade pass from this life will recount a golden experience.”

  I felt my heart beat speed up. That sounded like they were going to ask all of us to speak. I wouldn’t be included in this, would I? I barely knew the man.

  “Brother Sven.”

  The tall blonde sighed, his shoulders slumping forward as he took in a deep breath. “I met Brother Chris during his first days in the Order. He was lost and scared, but also brave. His father had passed away, and he had entered three years early, before he was even an adult in any sense of the word.” He licked his lips, and his voice fell. “Yet, he was so courageous. No matter how afraid he was, no matter how mortal the danger or how open and tender his heart, he would never abandon a comrade, would never turn his tail and run. I remember, on his very first hunt, he was so scared by our first sight of the bubbler that he literally quaked in his boots—his legs were shaking all of the way down, shaking so hard that his knees actually knocked together!”

  There was a light series of chuckles around the room. For another man, perhaps, or told by a different one, this story could have been misunderstood—an attempt at embarrassment, at dishonor. Yet I could see how well Sven had chosen, how perfectly it fit what little I knew of Chris. Sven smiled and closed his eyes, and in that moment, I watched as his face fell into ruins, as his heart broke before me. “I loved him as a brother and as a son, the little mouse that had the heart of a dragon.”

  There were grumbles of appreciation in the audience, and then Buckner nodded at Shawn. He stepped forward before he could be announced, and his face held neither the soft light of Sven’s nor the pained, yet graceful, lines of Buckner’s. Instead, it was a like a foreboding winter landscape, full of small flurries of anger and pain that darted across its tense blankness. “Brother Chris was a hero,” he bellowed, his eyes glinting fiercely. His voice bounced and echoed off of the walls. “I’ll be the first to say that among us, he was the purest, the most innocent, the best of heart. Were any one of us to go before him, it would have been more fitting. If I could, I would still go in his place.”

  It wasn’t a memory, not really, but he stepped back slightly, a clear sign he had said what he wanted to say, and I let out the breath I had been holding. I wasn’t sure if Buckner would allow that—for Shawn hadn’t recounted a true experience—but then Buckner nodded slightly at me, and I realized he meant for me to speak.

  I stared into the darkness of the audience, and then at Sven, at Shawn, and finally at Buckner. It was not, though, until Bucker had started to turn away that I found my voice. “I don’t . . . didn’t know Brother Chris well. I have heard you all talk about his bravery, and I agree, but there is something else I’d like to mention about him too.”

  I bit my lip, unsure if I really wanted to do this, but I had committed myself—and besides, didn’t Chris deserve it? I felt my back relax as my shoulders squared. “Brother Chris brought me breakfast this morning. I was scared and disoriented, and hungry. I could tell he was nervous, being around me—but he was so kind, so thoughtful. He went out of his way to bring me butter and salt, to sit with me, to talk to me. . ." The catch in my voice surprised me, but I soldiered on. “He was the only person, besides my own master, that went out of his way to be my friend and treat me like a human being. I don’t know if that means anything to you guys, but it means a lot to me. So that’s what I’d like to mention. His kindness.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Buckner’s slight nod of approval. He opened his hands wide, as if to embrace the whole audience. “Those present at death have spoken and recounted his passing, and we have recounted the honors of his character. At this point, we would give the body to his immediate family for his burial, but he had none besides his father, the late Brother David. So it is up to us to bury him, and we are going to do it in our way.”

  He waved at Sven and Shawn. The two of them bent over sideways and picked up the lid to the coffin. In a magnificent show of grace and strength, they lifted the lid and carefully lowered it down, so Chris was shut away from the eyes of all watching.

  My stomach clenched. He was leaving all over again. It would be the last we ever saw of him.

  Buckner removed the hammer from his side, pulling out and unwinding the leather thong, before wrapping it carefully around his hand. From the pocket in his shirt, he pulled out, not a cigarette, but a small bunch of nails. I couldn’t see exactly how many, but I could guess.

  He extracted one, colored bright red, and placed the tip against the very top of the coffin lid. “As the master of your master, I send you on your final hunt.” He brought the hammer down with a series of short, heavy blows, and when he looked up again, I caught a tear tracing its way down his leather cheek.

  He came up to me, to Shawn and Sven, and to each of us he handed a single white nail. Bot
h of them hammered in the nail—Sven’s blows listless, Shawn’s angry—and then it was my turn.

  Please don’t let this be difficult. Please let me get this in straight.

  As if guided by Chris himself, my hammer came down once, hard. I could almost feel the nail under it, the way it sought out the wood beneath it as if drawn by magnetism.

  For a moment, I wondered if the ease of the blow was because I had missed the wood completely. I peered down at the nail, but no, the head was there, flush and perfect. My hand had been swift and true.

  And then Buckner waved his hand at the men, and they came from the audience toward the stage like a great cresting wave. Each took a black nail from him, and each, in hammer blows and tears and screams of anger, said their final goodbyes.

  Once the entire affair was finally over, we were allowed to go back to our quarters.

  Hours passed. I thought about Chris, his innocence, and the fact he would never do anything again. I thought about Luke, about driving, about my truck. I thought about my parents.

  What was I doing here, really?

  It had made sense at first—maybe not logically, but emotionally. I had been lost, sad, confused, and lonely. And yeah, I had been in shock—I had just wrecked my truck, just watched everything I owned destroyed at once, just glimpsed a . . . bubbler? I had been afraid of Shawn and his gun—

  And . . . what? I thought I’d find something out about my dad?

  How stupid was that?

  When it was quiet enough that I thought everyone was asleep, I scooped Diesel up in one of my arms and crept out of the bed. I put on my shoes with the other hand—an awkward affair—and tried the doorknob.

  Some part of me expected it to be locked, I think. So when it twisted and the door creaked open, I had to take an extra step back to avoid bumping into it.

  I stuck my head in the hall. Dark and empty, it felt like a tomb.

  “Be quiet, okay?” I ruffled Diesel’s ears and started down the hallway.

  I wasn’t sure exactly how I was going to get off of the compound—my plan hadn’t got that far yet. I just knew this was somehow my last chance. I could feel my resolve crumble with each passing hour. I could feel myself growing closer to Buckner, and yes, maybe even Shawn. I could sense my mind and heart trying to find a place for me in the middle of all of this madness.

  Worst of all, at times, it didn’t feel like madness anymore, and that was the final piece. If I didn’t leave now, then I was “in.”

  At the sound of footsteps, I froze and flattened myself against a wall, my heart beating. They grew louder, and I tensed up, sure I would be discovered—and then I heard them pause and return, only more silent, and I knew that whoever it was, they were walking away. I hadn’t been discovered after all.

  I lifted my foot, ready to set out again, but the desire had been hard to hold onto before. Now, after this moment, it was gone completely, and in its place was an odd, uncomfortable fear that sat in my belly like a too-heavy breakfast platter.

  I let out the breath I was holding and crept back to my room. I set Diesel on the floor. He cocked an ear at me, as if to say, “That was pointless, wasn’t it?”

  I sighed and crawled into the bed. I wasn’t brave enough to stay, but I wasn’t brave enough to leave, either.

  Still, I didn’t know what I was going to do.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The cold, wet sensation on my cheek, combined with the erratic snuffling in my ear, was more than enough to wake me from a dead sleep. I groaned and rolled, trying to ruffle Diesel’s head in an effort to get him to stop licking. Between my aching muscles and the gray film that covered my vision, I missed several times before actually making contact. Plus, judging from the wet feeling under one of my fingers, I either poked him in the nose or the eye.

  A series of swift knocks sounded at the door. Instantly, Diesel erupted with an answering volley. He pranced in tight circles on the bed, barking his head off, and then jumped down to the door.

  “Down! Heel! Shut up!” I rubbed my throbbing temples, my thoughts unable to penetrate the din that filled the room like a cloud. Nothing worked.

  Maybe I could just lie down and put a pillow over my head. The idea was incredibly attractive—in fact, my fingers were clutching the fabric before I remembered other people could hear barking, too.

  Did I really want to know what kind of punishment the Order gave out for noise violations? Something else niggled in the back of my brain, but I pushed it away. First thing first—I had to get Diesel under control.

  I was so tired I could barely open my eyes, but the bone-cracking tumble out of bed jolted me into a more-or-less alert state. I opened the door a sliver. Diesel immediately tried to nuzzle his way out, and I shoved him back with my foot.

  The dire-looking man on the other side regarded me with a sour expression. He thrust a tray toward me, and the scent of oatmeal and toast wafted in.

  It was like being sucker-punched. “Thanks,” I said, trying not to let my voice catch. I took the tray from his hands and backed up. By the time I closed the door, he was already gone.

  I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to stand there, either. Judging from the mutters that passed me on the way out of Chris’s ceremony, there were some who thought my involvement with his death was more than just as a witness.

  After a moment’s consideration, I tested the bowl’s temperature and set it on the floor. Diesel could probably use a treat. If they fed him anything like the way they fed me, he was hungry and sick of bland, healthy crap dog food. Maybe some bland, healthy-crap human food was just what he needed.

  He immediately attacked the bowl with full-body force, pawing it sideways. I watched him eat and giggled a little. Seeing my little pup go nuts on a bowl of oatmeal seemed right. It seemed like the kind of thing Chris might like if he were around. A shadow of grief revealed itself to the light. While I hadn’t known him very well, he seemed like a truly nice, genuine person, and the death he suffered must have been horrible.

  The bowl empty, Diesel tipped it with a paw, trying to get a glob that had pasted itself to one of the sides. It was then I noticed the note, peeking out from under the bowl.

  Your Schedule

  Each training class is roughly four hours in length, although your trainer may let you go early if he feels you aren’t able to handle the load. Please take them all seriously and apply yourself the best you can. As you’ve already seen, the right training can be the difference between life and death.

  Most new students take six classes, ranging in subjects from Order Lore to Development of Special Abilities—more on that later—before they are assigned a master. Because I—and therefore you—are needed on the field, and right away, we’re going to be shortcutting your training process into only the most practical parts of your education. You’ll get the other stuff later, don’t worry, but for right now, you’ve only got two classes—Self-Defense, complete with weapons training, in the morning and Advanced Driver School in the evening—although the Driving trainer will be gone for about a week, so it’s just Self-Defense for you right now. It’s my hope that you’ll be able to pick up the rest as we go.

  All the best,

  Buckner

  Self-Defense? Weapons training? I shivered. Something told me this wasn’t going to be good.

  Finding the weapons room required a good amount of hall-wandering. Although the looks from the men weren’t nearly as cold or as standoffish as they had been before Chris’s creepy death ceremony, people still went pretty far out of their way to avoid talking to me. Finally, when I passed the same stocky redhead six times, I managed to get close enough to ask for a point in the right direction.

  A few more hallways and turns, and I found myself in front of a tall, vault-like door. It creaked open to reveal dark staircase that whispered with a damp draft.

  Maybe that redhead wasn’t such a nice guy, after all. I mean, underground in a giant, secure complex, with nobody aware that I was even h
ere? This did look like the perfect place to guarantee nobody ever found my body.

  I stood at the top of the stairs and listened for a while. No signs of life.

  What if I just didn’t go?

  I shook my head. I might be able to make up an excuse for everybody else, but one look at Buckner’s penetrating stare, and I’d cough up details like my life depending on it. And as embarrassing as it sounded, I didn’t want him to think I was a wuss.

  And besides, I had just watched Chris give his life in a spectacular show of bravery. I could probably handle some stairs.

  I crept down, feeling my steps and trying to ignore the way my heart pounded in my throat. The redhead mentioned something about a light-switch halfway down, but I must have missed it completely, because I didn’t feel anything on the wall.

  When I finally got the bottom, I found a switch. I flipped it, grateful for the way a dim light poured into the room—until I looked up and noticed the bare bulb that swung on a frayed wire. I almost bolted right there. How many times had I seen the same, sad cliché in horror movies and the like?

  The staircase dead-ended at the bottom into a wall. I turned, looking for the exit, but the passageway that greeted me sucked the remaining air out of my lungs. I was staring straight down a long, dark tunnel, the sides curved like a sewer’s. For a moment, my head filled with the image of the door at the top shutting and locking with a pneumatic hiss. The dim bulb would flicker out, seconds before the whole passageway filled up with icy cold water. I didn’t exactly put it past these people.