Fire and Ash (Benny Imura 4)

They reached the tent, where Brother Michael, a monk who helped with psychological counseling, was waiting for them. Before First Night he’d been a radio call-in host.

“What in tarnation is going on?” asked Riot.

Sister Hannahlily looked frightened, and Riot couldn’t imagine why. There was a faint sound coming from inside the tent, a soft thudding sound that Riot could not make sense of, like someone fluffing a pillow.

“We moved the other children out of the tent,” said Sister Hannahlily. “We thought it best.”

“Moved them out? Why? Where’s Eve?”

“Inside,” said the monk.

Riot reached for the tent flap.

Eve was the only person in the tent. Riot could tell almost at once that the little girl was asleep, though she was standing and moving. Sleepwalking, in a way. In a horrible way.

The girl had gathered all the rag dolls the children had made during arts and crafts. They lay side by side on one of the cots. Eve held a pair of the pinking shears used to cut the fancy, frilly trim for the dollies’ dresses. She held the shears in both hands and with slow, determined, deliberate swings of her entire body, she stabbed the dolls over and over and over again.

And she smiled as she did it.

Riot gasped, and Eve paused for a moment, turning her face toward the open tent flap. The little girl’s mouth smiled, but there was no humor in her eyes. There was nothing in her eyes. No emotion, no recognition, no anger.

There was absolutely nothing.

It was as if thos

e blue eyes looked in on a house that was empty of all light and life, a place where only dark and awful shadows moved.

Then Eve turned back to the dolls.

The shears rose and fell, rose and fell.

27

THREE MONTHS AGO . . .

Saint John came out of a long private meditation when he heard a quiet footfall nearby. “Good afternoon, Sister Sun,” he said quietly, eyes still closed.

“Honored One,” she said.

Saint John opened his eyes and touched her head, murmuring a small blessing. She straightened up and sat where he indicated. Sister Sun had once been a lovely woman, and she still had deeply intelligent eyes and a face that reminded him of paintings he’d seen of Ma Gu, the ancient Korean goddess of longevity. It was a bitter irony, of course, since she had so little time left in front of her. Months, not years. He never commented on the resemblance, of course, because he felt it might offend her in a spiritual sense to be reminded of a goddess from one of mankind’s many false religions.

Instead he said, “You look troubled, sister.”

“I am. There have been more reports about mutations. More of the gray people who can move faster than should be possible.”

“How many cases?”

“Seven, which brings the total number of reliable reports to twenty-two.”

“And this continues to disturb you?”

“Yes, Honored One. We will be moving the reapers back into Nevada soon, and I asked Mother Rose if it wasn’t time for us to consider opening the shrine.”

“What would you have us do, sister?” asked Saint John. “Use the weapons of the heretics?”

Sister Sun took a moment on that. “Honored One . . . I love my fellow reapers, but I’m not fool enough to think that all of them are with us out of an undying love of Thanatos—all praise his darkness. Some of them—maybe a lot of them—are opportunists who chose to kiss the knife rather than feel its caress on their flesh.”

Saint John did not comment on that.