Dearly, Beloved

  “As long as he’s not my illegitimate brother, I do not care.” Releasing her and returning to my desk, I removed the day’s mail from a bottom drawer. Five letters on honest-to-God parchment paper sealed with black wax stamped with a generic image of a raven, each bearing a series of random numbers in the top left corner. I slid them into a large envelope. “Your money is inside. Leave my mail behind the wainscoting when you come back tonight.”

  Coco regarded me suspiciously, but took the letters, sliding them into her bag as she retrieved it from the floor. “Anything else?” Her defeated voice cheered my mood considerably. When women just did what they were told, oh, how easy life became.

  “That will be all, Miss Perdido. You may go.” The woman did so, swiftly. You’d think I’d savaged her.

  Once she was gone I realized I had no choice but to involve my father in some aspect of this after all.

  My family was currently staying at Bestia del Oro, our country home in northeastern Honduras—close to the Talgua, or the Cave of the Glowing Skulls, an ancient pre-Colombian ossuary full of bones coated in light-reflecting calcite deposits. It was a territorial landmark, and nothing I wished to think about now that I’d seen the dead up and walking.

  My father’s library was located squarely in the middle of the building. The hallway leading there was lined with enormous windows on the eastern side, and long, horizontal flat screens in fanciful silver frames on the western. The screens were already on and tuned to the news, the sound muted. I could see the headlines reflected in the glass as I glanced outside, making out the shapes of other mansions in the morning mist.

  ORIGINATOR OF MUTANT STRAIN OF LAZARUS MOVED TO DRIKE’S ISLAND ARE MILITANT ZOMBIE GROUPS INEVITABLE?

  PRIME MINISTER TO ADDRESS PARLIAMENT TODAY RE: UNDEAD

  The sprawling white house at two o’clock was Éclatverre, the Minks’ country retreat—oh, the conversations Vespertine Mink and I had had along her garden fence since our flight from New London. I spent a while contemplating them, before moving on. I wasn’t looking forward to what I had to do.

  When I came to my father’s door, I knocked.

  “Enter.”

  I did so, bowing the instant the door was closed. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Ah, my idiot son. Help yourself to a cup of tea.” My father, Lord Leslie Allister, waved toward the large brass samovar in the center of the oval room. Not once did he divert his eyes from the thirty or forty floating displays surrounding him, a sectioned globe of light created by scores of tiny high-def holographic projectors located throughout the gilded library. Then, to the air he said, “Virtual rat batch 23-3.41, terminate testing, destroy file.” One of the screens went black.

  I tried to swallow the insult so casually tossed my way—like every morning since the Siege. “Experiment not going well?”

  Dad shrugged. “Unassigned screen, access virtual rat batch 23-3.42. Rez and run at twenty-times speed.” My father always appeared to take everything in stride, to calmly accept situations rather than emotionally oppose them. Despite the fact that he made everything look effortless, his face was creased, his sandy hair edging toward colorlessness, his eyes careworn.

  I joined him in the middle of the sphere once I had a cup of tea. Along with NVIC and the usual financial channels, he was also keeping an eye on T-SPAN and footage from security cameras located within the Maria Bosawas-Allister Memorial Animal Preserve and Gene Bank, home of Allister Genetics, the source of the vast majority of our family fortune. Usually if one was both a lord and involved in business or industry, any professional titles were mere formalities, indicators of either inheritance or more than average investment—but my father actually worked for his paycheck, refusing to delegate, often micromanaging.

  One of the cameras was following a group of hunters in the brush—new aristocracy, naturally. “People are still trying to squeeze more hunting in, even though the Season’s supposedly under way.” He frowned. “Computer, email relevant employees—ten more tigers in the vat by Tuesday. They always want to bag a bloody tiger. And after all that’s happened.”

  “There were parties going on in New London last night,” I told him. “Dregs presenting their girls to other dregs, most likely. Not even the walking dead could get the true blue-blooded debutantes to come out before May.” The Season—when the rich and titled moved closer to New London and Parliament was in full swing—usually ran from March to August. Of course, the Siege had changed that. My family was not the only one reluctant to return to its house near the city, and Parliament had been in emergency session since December. Like my father, I was forced to conclude that those trying to engage in Seasonal activities were either stupid or suicidal. Or in denial.

  “Hmm. Just behave yourself in town. I don’t need a repeat of that bit of stupidity with Miss Roe and Miss Dearly.” His lip actually curled as he spoke the latter name. “I’ve told you for years that she’s too much like her father. That she’d lead you to ruin.”

  “Yes, sir,” I got out.

  “Don’t make me regret giving you a certain amount of latitude again. You will not get another chance.”

  His words cut, and for not the first time I wished I hadn’t spilled my guts upon my return so many months ago. But I’d had so much to atone for. I didn’t want to think about Roe, latitude, or sowing anything. Hell, my “friends” couldn’t even get their orders straight so I could sow the freaking bomb where it was supposed to go. “Yes, well—”

  “Quiet.” Dad held up a hand. “Cue sound from screen showing T-SPAN.”

  Parliament was engaged in a new round of dead-related talks—and, as usual, those “talks” seemed to involve a lot of screaming, finger-pointing, and outright mockery. On the screen the PM, Lord Esteban Alba, stood at a podium. Since becoming Prime Minister back in December he’d started shedding his silvery hair, leading to the creation of an ever-increasing bald spot. “No. The suggestion by Lord Ashburn is not up for consideration—nor do I hope it will ever be. There is to be absolutely no talk of sending the undead to camps, receiving areas, or anything of the sort. Quarantine has ended.”

  Lord Cecil Khan, an earnest middle-aged man with skin like flawless brown book leather, jumped to his feet and declared, “With all due respect, Prime Minister—this is not an issue of civil rights. This is about keeping track of the diseased who walk among us!” Many on the floor cheered at this outburst.

  One of the northern country MPs, Alejandro Meral, stood up and countered, “You’re exactly right—and I urge you to think on that! What would you have us do, Lord Khan? Punish the sick? The majority of the infected out there pose absolutely no danger to anyone. These are ill people, not monsters! Their families have spoken for them, even threatened to take up arms to defend them, and we ought to respect that.”

  Lord Khan stood up again and gestured with his digidiary at Meral. “They’re destined to become monsters—don’t lie!” He turned his attention back to the PM. “Point is, we ran the Punks off for doing little more than these dead scoundrels have done. We made a swift, forceful decision that undoubtedly saved us years of violence and heartbreak. We need to do the same thing here!”

  “You’re exaggerating!” cried Meral. “The Punks burned computerized factories, attacked the aristocracy, acted like mad neo-Luddites. People were murdered in cold blood. The dead who attacked the city were mindless, and a living man was responsible for them being there in the first place.”

  “What about the attacks at the port yesterday? Were those zombies ‘sane’ until they started biting?” yet another lord argued.

  Lord John Ashburn rose. “We should quarantine them all in the Elysian Fields. The EF is mostly empty at this point—it’s the safest place for them. At the very least, those gathered at Dahlia Park should be forced to move down there.”

  “Oh, yes!” yelled Meral. “Stick them underground. Bury them alive!”

  Talk of the dead just made me angry now, but I did my best to listen rather than tun
e it all out. I hated to think about the fact that New London was swelling with zombies. I hated to think about the fact that the government, under Alba, was protecting them.

  I hated to dwell on the idea of Miss Dearly still living in New London with a bunch of maggot men. With one maggot man in particular.

  It didn’t matter. She would soon learn the error of her ways. And Dad would never have to know about it.

  “I want a job,” I said. “Since school is still out.”

  Dad seemed genuinely surprised by this, and ordered the screen to mute before turning his piercing eyes on me. While I’ve always known my lot in life was to follow in my father’s footsteps as owner, chairman, and CEO of his beloved company, I’d never before displayed real interest in anything having to do with Allister Genetics. I needed something to do with my days, though. An alibi. Especially if Coco decided to turn against me.

  I needed something to deflect attention away from my nights.

  Clearing my mind, I did my best to render my face as unreadable as possible. It’s a skill of mine. When I was but a child I discovered the intense joy of hiding my true self and emotions from my parents, and then from my schoolmates at St. Arcadian’s—learned about the freedom that comes from suppression. If no one knows your motives, if no one suspects you or even truly understands you, you can get away with anything.

  “Is this about money?” he asked.

  “No.” I could get all the money I liked from my mother—a fact I decided not to remind my father of. Things were going so well. “I just want to continue to prove myself to you, my lord. To make up for sneaking away to help Miss Roe. I know now that it was not only stupid, but selfish of me. That my first concern should have been my family.”

  My father thought about this for quite a while, leaving me in suspense. “I think we can do that, then.” He looked into my eyes. “Success takes effort, son. A willingness to work. I’m glad to see that trait in you. I know we’ve treated you harshly these last months, but as I said—you have one more chance. That alone should show you how much we love you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  One of the screens in his globe flashed—an incoming call from my maternal uncle, and my father’s closest friend, Lord Robert Cross. Turning away from me, Dad said, “Come back around eleven. We’ll find something for you to do.”

  “Thank you,” I said, bowing, and favoring him with a slight smile. I then returned to my room, my heart going a mile a minute. My father’d been surprisingly easy to deal with. Coco was good.

  Now I just had to figure out how I was going to deal with everyone else.

  Isambard was dying, and I couldn’t help him.

  At the bottom of a coal bunker encrusted so thickly with soot that it felt like a forest floor, I held my little brother and wept because I couldn’t help him. He was curled up in pain, and the most horrible thing was how tightly he tried to cling to me even as his body began to weaken—how hard he fought not to leave me. I wanted to scream at God and Evola and Coalhouse, wanted to rage and hurt and kill—anything to convince someone of the sheer unrelenting unfairness of it all, that a boy so willing to fight for his life stood absolutely no chance of winning.

  But I couldn’t help him.

  Then we were in a lifeboat, one so flimsy that I felt certain we would sink like a stone into the choppy black sea if God forgot to hold us up. I covered Isambard with my body, praying without ceasing that the New Victorian troops wouldn’t spot him, wouldn’t shoot him, all because of what he had become.

  Isambard begged for his mother. But I was not his mother, and I couldn’t tell him what would become of her—not only because I was still crying so hard I couldn’t speak, but because I didn’t know.

  “Mom! Mom!”

  Suddenly I rocketed awake, gasping for air. My heart was racing, aching, my senses overwhelmingly sharp—the weight of my clammy nightgown like a thousand pinpricks, the air so heavy I felt like an artifact buried in clay. Even the darkness seemed to have color, my vision was so vivid.

  “I’m safe,” I chanted. It came out like a puppy’s midnight cry for its mother. “I’m safe. I’m home. I’m safe.” I tried to ignore the sound of my own heart, the sting in my chest, the tingling numbness running up and down my left arm. I knew it would go away eventually. I had to keep telling myself that.

  As usual, I sought a distraction. I strained my hearing into the darkness, hoping I hadn’t woken anyone up. I was always afraid the screams I heard in my dreams were my own—my imagination cannibalizing the very terror it created. I didn’t want to frighten my parents. A small and selfish part of my soul craved their concern, but in the end I had to acknowledge that they’d been through hell, too. It was only right to try and make life as easy as I could for them. Even if I suffered for it.

  Sometimes I felt stretched so thin that I wondered if there was anything left of me.

  I didn’t hear anything. Once I thought I could manage, I slowly climbed out of bed and stood there in the dark with goose bumps rising on my skin, balancing on my heels to keep my toes off the floor. How did Nora deal with this? She’d been through just as much as I had. How did she handle it?

  Even though she’d been grounded a few days ago—not to mention the fact that my clock said it was 3:12 A.M.—I dug my phone out from under the pile of books on my vanity and sent her a message. I needed to talk to someone.

  Is everything okay?

  Yes. Are you okay? When I am definitely not?

  Telling myself she wouldn’t respond, I got to work changing my nightgown. The thought entered my head that I could go downstairs and have a taste of wine, but I dismissed it. I still felt guilty for using alcohol to get to sleep back in December.

  My phone beeped. I jumped, before calming myself down and picking it up.

  Yeah. Are you? Trouble sleeping?

  She was awake. I sat down on my bed and smiled a little. It meant a lot to me that she’d understood, even if she didn’t know the whole story.

  Yes.

  Her response was almost instantaneous.

  TELL ME ABOUT IT. ;P

  I covered my mouth with my wrist to hide my laughter. I didn’t have to respond; she kept texting. She was probably going insane in the house.

  Really, email me and tell me about it. Hid phone and digidiary under my mattress. Papa clueless.

  Dr. Chase snores. This is her: -_- o O (ZZZ)

  Can you come over and help me with the Gene thing this week? Papa might let you.

  4 days and 20 hours. ;P Gotta hide phone again.
  I put my own phone away and took a cleansing breath. “I’m safe. It’s okay.”

  The squeaking of a hinge in the night argued against my mantra.

  Gathering my nightgown off the floor, my heart ticking like an old clock, I tiptoed to the door to listen. Someone was walking the hallway outside, their footsteps scraping slowly in the direction of Isambard’s room. Had I awoken Issy? Had he come to check on me and then retreated? He’d told me his hearing was much sharper now—that the Lazarus wanted him to stalk his prey by sight and sound and smell. Maybe he’d heard me talking to myself.

  I knew exactly how to open my door so it wouldn’t make any noise. Poking my head into the hall, I listened. If he was awake, I could talk to him.

  But instead of Isambard’s footfalls, I heard a voice. Mother’s.

  My beleaguered heart sinking, I walked toward Issy’s room, keeping to the wall. Aside from Mom’s voice the house was so still that I could hear the sticky sound made whenever one of my bare feet left the wooden floor.

  Issy’s door was open. I peered around the corner, holding my breath. Mom was standing over him as he slept, dead to the world. Her hands were held before her body, and her torso rocked back and forth on her hips like part of a hinged Punch and Judy doll.

  “Heavenly Father, be merciful,” I heard her whisper. “Heavenly Father, please, cure Isambard, I know You can cure him. I know You can bring him back to life, as You did You
r son, Jesus. As You did the real Lazarus.”

  Cupping my hand around my mouth, I leaned away from the door and let my shoulder blades hug the wall. I willed myself not to cry.

  “Death is nothing to You, Lord. I trust, I have faith. You are all powerful, all merciful.” She was starting to sob, her words tangling in her mouth. “Please, cure my son, please.”

  I couldn’t take any more. I ran back to my room, my heels never touching the ground. Shutting my bedroom door, I backed up to my bed and allowed gravity to take over, ending up supine atop the blankets.

  Only then did I let myself weep for my poor mother, my brother, and all we had known.

  The next morning I felt like a zombie.

  Midway through a morose breakfast, during which Mom kept cutting up a slice of apple into smaller and smaller pieces for Isambard, Dr. Evola opened the front door. “Just me. Headed upstairs to die now,” I heard him say as he shut and locked it behind him.

  Mom and Dad left the table and moved to the foyer. The minute they were gone I stood up. Isambard made furious, whooshing arm movements at me, bidding me to go eavesdrop. I did, moving as close as I could to the dining room door without being spotted.

  “Are you well, Dr. Evola?” I heard Mom ask.

  “Not truly at death’s door, not yet,” he responded. The cherub-haired, monocled Charles Evola normally spoke in such young, chipper tones—but not today. “It’s a madhouse over there.”

  “You’ve been gone so long!”

  “I couldn’t leave.” I heard him put down his bag. “Most of our living volunteers quit, as well as some of the living staff. They’re afraid of the new strain. We’ve been scrambling since.”

  “Is there any news?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Dr. Dearly’s never available when I go over—only a man named Dr. Salvez. Plus I’m a tech, not an epidemiologist. I don’t understand half the stuff they deal with anyway.”