Flesh and Bone (Benny Imura 3)

“Why are you getting mad at me? I’m trying to get some help here ’cause I think I’m really screwed up, and you’re giving me crap.”

“Benny, how do you know this is Tom?”

“I just know.”

“No,” she snapped, “that’s not good enough. How do you know?”

“I just do. He was my brother. I think I’d know my brother’s voice. This is him.”

“Then ask him my mother’s middle name. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of that.”

When Nix didn’t say anything, Benny sighed.

“Look,” he said, “why are you badgering me about this? You think I want to hear my dead brother’s voice?”

“Why not? I’d give anything to hear my mother speak to me,” said Nix in a voice that was filled with fragile cracks.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because,” shouted Nix, “I can’t even remember what she sounded like.”

After a long moment, Benny said, “What?”

“God . . . I’d give anything for her to start talking to me.” A sob hitched in her chest. “Benny . . . I can’t even remember what my mother looked like.”

67

SITTING WITH EVE STEADIED CHONG. HE UNDERSTOOD WHY. IT WAS harder to let yourself sink if someone else needed you to be their rock. He saw Benny and Nix do that for each other, even though he was positive they weren’t aware of it.

It did not mean that Chong was less terrified, but the girl’s terror and trauma were worse than his own. Even if he died, what she was going through was worse. She’d seen her parents murdered right in front of her. When Chong died, his fear would end; Eve would have to live with those memories.

Everything’s relative.

Eve sat close to him, sucking her thumb, occasionally humming disjointed pieces of lullabies.

Riot went outside to make sure they were still safe, then came back and sat down. Chong studied Riot’s face. She was a puzzle to him. She reminded him of Tom’s bounty hunter friend, Sally Two-Knives. Tough, fiercely individual, violent, and clearly with a heart.

“Talk to me,” said Chong.

“About what?” she asked. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to come up with some smart way out of this bear trap, but every which way I look there’s just more traps.”

“Yeah, let’s not talk about that,” said Chong. “Why don’t you tell me your story? I mean . . . are you a reaper?”

She looked away for a moment. “Not as such,” she said.

“Okay, that was evasive.”

She shrugged. “I was a reaper once upon a time. Ain’t now. End of story.”

“No,” said Chong. “I’m dying, I get to be nosy. You’re a walking contradiction. You have the same skin art as the reapers, but you went after Brother Andrew like you owed him for a lot of hurt.”

Riot ran a hand thoughtfully over her scalp, then sighed. “I was no more’n two years old when the plague hit,” she said slowly. “My dad was raising me. He was a country doctor down in North Carolina. He’d divorced my ma ’cause she was a drunk and a bum and no damn good.”

“I’m sorry,” Chong began, but she waved it away.

“That’s the nice part of the story. Y’all want to hear it or not?”