Dad shut the screen off with the remote control as soon as he entered. Isambard was already inside, holding Jenny by the hand. My father clapped a hand on Issy's shoulder and said to Lopez, "And this is my son, Isambard. I believe that last time you saw him he was ... alive."

Issy bowed stiffly to Lopez. "I owe you my thanks, my lord."

"Think nothing of it. I'm glad to see you looking so well, young man." Lopez looked down at Jenny, who was staring up at him, her eyes like two headlights. "And who is this little lady?"

"Jenny Delgado, one of our neighbors."

Lopez inclined his head at her. "h.e.l.lo, Miss Delgado."

Issy squeezed Jenny's hand, whispering, "Curtsy."

Jenny did no such thing. Instead she pointed at Lopez's face and p.r.o.nounced, "You're wearing a caterpillar!"

Lopez straightened up, his hand moving to his moustache. After a protracted second, he chuckled. "Is it that bad? I have been away from civilization for quite some time."

Laughing, I moved to pick Jenny up, relieving Isambard of his duties for a while. "Come on, Jenny-bear. Let's find your crayons."

I took her to the corner by the fireplace, where she had a tin pail of crayon stubs and a long roll of butcher paper to draw on. As I tore off a piece for her, Lopez took a seat on our satin sofa, glancing curiously about our poky parlor. I felt another stab of embarra.s.sment, despite the fact that my mother had polished it obsessively upon learning that a lord might call on her-but a split second later he caught my eye and smiled kindly, and I found my embarra.s.sment dissolving. Outside, it began to rain.

"We all owe you so much," Dad said as he sat down in his usual chair. Isambard sat in Mother's rocking chair for the time being. "My daughter told us what happened that night, but I'm afraid it still seems rather surreal. I never thought of attempting to locate you, to thank you, and that is a mark against me. Thank goodness you ran into her again."

"Your thanks are happily accepted, but not necessary," Lopez said, addressing my father, his expression growing serious. "If I have performed my duty, that is enough. And I can only apologize for my repeated run-ins with Miss Roe without your knowledge."

Dad shook his head. "No, no, never mention it again." Upon hearing this, Lopez seemed to relax a little.

Mother came in with the best tea service then, and set it down on the table. "My daughter said you're no longer with the army? Forgive my curiosity."

"No. I was relieved at the pleasure of the government, following the death of my elder brother, Lord Atticus Lopez."

"I'm so sorry," Mother said, regret washing across her plump features. "Did he ... was he infected?"

"No, though he did pa.s.s away during the troubles in December." Lopez set his hands in his lap. "It's not a story for little ears, I'm afraid. Nor do I derive much enjoyment from its telling."

"Of course." Mom started pouring. As she did, Isambard sent me a frantic look that told me how badly he wanted to get in on the conversation. Even in death his age prevented him from speaking unless spoken to. Mine did, too. It must have seemed terribly unfair to Issy-he could never actually grow up and reach the stage where he could speak with other men as a man in his own right. The fact that he wasn't arguing against this very thing, fighting for a reevaluation of his social prospects, told me just how much death had changed him. The old Issy would have clawed his way up the social ladder tooth and nail.

I wasn't sure whether to be proud of him or utterly devastated.

"I've been renting in the city since his funeral," Lopez volunteered. Accepting a cup of tea, he joked, his tone dull, "You must correct me, madam, if I make any etiquette mistakes. I'm sure fifteen years in the army have taken their toll. You've obviously raised two wonderful children, and I'm sure I could benefit from your instruction."

Mom smiled at him, and her smile struck me as being from another time, another place. It was a smile born of true sympathy, of pleasure at another's kindness. I only had a few moments to enjoy it before Jenny tugged on my sleeve, calling my attention back to her. I helped her to hold her crayons as she worked.

The adults went on to speak in soft tones of many nontopics-the weather, the prices of things since the Siege, everything but the actual violence and events thereof. I listened compulsively, anxious that Lopez might still give me up, tell them about the real circ.u.mstances of our second meeting-but he never did. In fact, there was something calming in his demeanor, something about the way he phrased his statements that made them seem fair and just. It put me at ease. As he and my parents chatted, I could see it was having an effect on them, too. They joked a little. Their postures softened.

It was a priceless gift.

After a while Mother rose to light a few more oil lamps. Premature darkness was settling outside, the rain coming down harder, the blue walls of the parlor turning gray. As she did, Lopez addressed my brother. "Forgive me for being so forward, but may I ask after your health?"

Isambard scratched at his lip. "You mean about being a zombie, my lord?"

Lopez coughed. "Yes. After I left you and your sister behind, I confess, I wondered what fate I was consigning you to."

"Well, after I reanimated and we got back to the house to hide, Dr. Evola went to work on me. He drained all my blood, put in my valves." Isambard offered his wrist forward, to show his medication valve. "Because my heart doesn't work anymore, you see."

If Lopez was disturbed by this, he didn't show it. "I see. And what are your plans now?"

Isambard thought about it for a moment before saying, "Just to ... do what I have to. Jenny's my responsibility. I don't know. I'd help in the bakery, but I can't now." He rotated his paper cup of water in his hands. "I used to never want to, ever. Now I do, and I can't."

"I understand that well." Lopez looked over at me. "And you, Miss Roe?"

Jenny started struggling to her feet, and I helped her stand. "The same. To be with those I love." I had no answer other than that. I couldn't exactly inform him that my highest goal at the moment was to stop dreaming of death and destruction, stop jumping at every noise.

Lopez nodded minutely, before looking to the floor. "Ah, what's this?"

As he'd spoken, Jenny had walked over to him, piece of paper in hand. When she finally neared him she stumbled over a slight hump in the carpet, and Lopez immediately reached down to take one of her hands and help her regain her balance. Once she had her bearings, she shook him off and proudly held up the page. She'd drawn, ostensibly, Lord Lopez. At least the drawing looked vaguely head-shaped, although the head sported a green caterpillar for a moustache, complete with legs and antennae. "You!"

Lopez's lips spasmed, but he didn't laugh. "I am honored, Miss Delgado. A striking resemblance! May I keep it?" She nodded happily. "Will you sign it for me?"

"One last awkward question, if you'll permit me," Dad said, as Jenny ran back to me. "Your surname is Lopez. As in the Lopezes of Marblanco?"

Lopez set down his cup. "I'm afraid so."

This held absolutely no meaning for me, but my mother put the box of matches back on the mantel and slowly lowered her arms, staring at him. "Truly? How sad."

My father attempted to shush her with a look. Issy and I shared a confused glance. Marblanco? What was Marblanco?

"Yes." Lopez's voice was now gruff, and I felt pins and needles in my chest again. I willed my parents to shut up.

"You have no other relatives, then, I take it, aside from your late brother?" Dad asked.

"None with whom I am close." Lopez glanced at the mantel clock just in time to see it strike the half hour. "I'm afraid I mustn't stay much longer."

My father stood up and bowed. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have mentioned it. I apologize for causing you any discomfort."

"No, not at all." Lopez gained his feet as well and extended his hand. "It was a long time ago. Your family is kind in the extreme. It's been an honor to accept your hospitality." Dad shook his hand, obviously relieved. Still, I felt at a loss, anxious about what he'd done. Whatever it was. I didn't understand.

Neither did I understand the explosion that tore through my head the next time I blinked.

This time I knew it wasn't fireworks, or thunder, or anything outside. The explosion echoed from under my feet. I gripped Jenny to me, her bird-sharp wail cutting through the sudden ringing in my ears. I could have sworn I'd felt the floor shift beneath me, but as my heart started to painfully pound, I wasn't sure if that had actually happened or not.

Dad and Lopez flew out into the hall. Mom was screaming. I stood up, seemingly in slow motion, and pushed Jenny into Dad's chair, ordering her to stay there. Issy moved to help with her, and I ran after the men, suddenly keenly aware of the weight of my dress.

Dad was at the open door. There was no panic outside; only a nondescript carriage racing down the dark, rainy street. It was going so fast that when it swerved to avoid another carriage, it teetered terrifyingly to one side. Someone was leaning out of the window, watching our house, and for a moment I thought myself mad-because that person had a beak. Like a giant bird.

Like the people who'd attacked Nora and Mr. Griswold.

Lopez opened the door to the bas.e.m.e.nt and stepped back, yelling, "Down there!"

I turned. Dad grabbed my arm, as if he expected me to run down into the cellar-but I didn't have to. I could see it. The door that led to the bakery was gone, a gaping hole standing in its place. I could make out more damage beyond-cracked flooring, destroyed equipment. Pieces of wall tile crumbled before my eyes, like sugar cubes in water. Dust and smoke billowed upward, small fires kindling in the corners.

Lopez turned back to look at me, his voice forceful. "Gather everyone into the street and call the police. Now."

Without looking back, without even pausing for breath, I ran to the parlor. I was still unsure what I'd just witnessed. All I knew was that the very world was shaking apart around us.

Again.

13.

MICHAEL.

Parliament was hideous, and its hideousness was a point of New Victorian pride. Not only did it sport hundreds of real marble statues of dubious symbolism and stretches of pretty, but pointless stonemasonry, it was crowned by a holographic lion and unicorn locked in battle, the pair of them half as large as the sprawling building beneath their feet.

As our carriage rattled past, I thrust my upper body out of the window and saluted. "Your obedient son!" The other boys crowed with laughter.

My cohorts for the evening had proven to be far more capable than the ones I'd been tasked with before-especially the one who was waiting for our carriage on the corner of George Street, hat off, his signal that the bakery was dark and empty and thus ready to be blown up. There hadn't been anyone waiting there last Sat.u.r.day. Unwilling to drive by the bakery, we circled around, and I ended up tossing the bomb into a rubbish bin in an alley. It seemed safer than driving all the way to the river with live ordnance in my lap, like we planned. I'd lost my composure.

For all I knew, though, the boys with me were the ones who'd accompanied me before. Between the beaked masks and the voice morphers installed in them, I had no idea who any of my "Brothers" actually were, ignorance casting a spell of protection over all of us. It made the other boys rowdy, fearless, and so I drank so I could act that way, too.

"I still can't believe the Murder actually got you a bomb. Two bombs," one of the Brothers said as he pulled me out of the rain and back inside the carriage. I stumbled over the large burlap sack on the floor as I made my way back to my seat. The mask obscured my peripheral vision.

"You've got some b.a.l.l.s to go after a bunch of living sympathizers that way. Can you imagine? Zombie filth living beside a bakery? It's a public health threat, that's what it is."

I laughed, even as my stomach twisted. I had to keep laughing, had to keep joking, because I wasn't sure what I was feeling-it didn't have a convenient name, like regret or anger. It was a disconnected feeling, like floating in a bubble of dissipated sensation. Almost euphoric, minus the actual euphoria. Like my mind had somehow disavowed my own body.

The deed was done. Payback had been delivered. Pamela Roe had to pay for what she'd done to me, true enough. She'd run me ragged, put my life in danger, humiliated me-put her hands on me. After all I'd done for her. And she was so low that I could enact little social revenge. I'd had no choice but to fight back with literal fire.

Now I could focus on the end game. In fact, I could only focus on the end game, which lent it solidity in my mind. Made it seem real. The plan hadn't actually seemed real before.

The burlap sack lurched to one side, suddenly alive and rolling like a maggot. I kicked it, the reaction purely born of fear, and it stilled with an all-too-human sob.

"I hate it when the entertainment gets uppity," my Brother grumbled.

"Just enjoy the ride, gents," I said, settling back. "Haven't the rotters taught you to treasure every second?"

One of the masked boys cracked up. "Oh, yeah. They're so wise now. So holier-than-thou. Is that why they burn so well, you think? All that holy fire? Or is it because h.e.l.l so desperately wants them back?"

I kept laughing.

The pub we were meeting in that evening was a dingy little hole in the wall below street level, one step removed from the sewer. Water from the storm drains crept in, beading down the walls. The bartender and his girls kept their faces carefully neutral as they served us, their blaring sound system providing us all with excuses.

As a courtesy to them we all deposited our weapons on a single table, slightly out of the way. The little collection was impressive-guns, bats, even a sword, of all things. We shed our outer coverings, but kept the masks. There were about thirty Brothers in attendance, but I had no idea how many were actually involved overall.

I kept an eye out for a bottle green velvet frock coat, and moved when I saw it. n.o.body could say whose face resided beneath that particular mask, but everybody knew him by his jacket. He was #1712, our record keeper, and a one-man dealer of almost everything illegal. Rumor held that he also knew the ident.i.ty of #0, the shadowy figure who'd supposedly started the whole thing. For all that legend-building, #0, like everyone else, was merely a rich boy in a mask. If he was even involved anymore. The first letter I'd received had included that suggestion: Even I will not know who you are, or if you are involved, or ever become uninvolved. Neither will you know who I am, or if I ever stand at your side. I may send these letters and walk away, to watch you all from afar.

Brother Green Jacket nodded when he saw me approaching. I'd worn a plain gold oval cravat pin to aid in recognition, as I'd told him I would in my note. He indicated that I ought to follow him through an iron-studded doorway, and I did so, drink in hand.

"Brother," he said once we were alone, his voice computerized. There was little light, but going by the bottles stacked around us, we were in a storage room. "I take it you were successful this time?"

"You'll see it on the news when you get home."

"Wonderful. I'm glad you wanted to go big. After all, you're asking quite a lot of me. Of the Murder. A special escort, a special venue ... that your Brothers not be there. I respect your vision, but it's rather complicated to set up."

I knew it was. That's why I'd joined up. My dreams were far too grand and risky to enact on my own. "Are you sure the police won't be able to trace the bombs?"

"I trust my supplier." He gestured into the darkness. As I watched, a large form materialized. Once it neared what little light filtered in around the edges of the door, I could see that it was a big man in a grimy coat, a mop of curly hair framing his wind-burned face. "As well as this fellow. He can find anyone."

"Not just find. Anyone can find, I deliver. Alive. Have for over twenty years." The man gave a shallow nod. "They call me the Ratcatcher."

"Good, because I know right where the rat is," I said, reaching into my jacket to grab two more envelopes. I offered one to him. "Unfortunately, that happens to be with a lot of other people. And I need him in one piece, in a secure location. It'll do me no good to attack him on the street."

Ratcatcher took the envelope and turned it over without opening it. Even if he wanted to look at the contents, the lack of light prevented him from doing so. "Couple thou in here, by the weight of it," he commented.

"You get the other half when I've got the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's putrid guts on my hands."

"Dead? This is a lot of money for a dead guy."

"Dead, but big. And well-trained. Army man. And he's not the only one I want." He lifted his eyes. "There's a girl. Living. I want her, too. Not a hair on her head is to be harmed, do you understand? She's coming along to watch. I doubt she'd come with me, or I'd handle it myself."

The big man mulled this over and spat on the floor. "Delivery date?"

"Twenty-seventh. A week from now."

"Not a lot of time."

"Exactly. I want to get this over with." Brother Green Jacket chuckled. At the sound of it, I felt the sudden urge to lay him out. My skin p.r.i.c.kled as I recalled all the ways this could go wrong, all the horrible things that could happen.

I repressed them. All of them.

"You got it, m'lord."

"Good." I handed the other envelope to Brother Green Jacket. "There's your money. Thank you for the delivery."

Nodding at both of the men, I saw myself out, my heart roaring like a zeppelin engine. Behind me, I heard Green Jacket say, "I'll be in touch. I need to arrange someplace quiet to take them. That one wants to do things a little differently. I'm only going along with it because what he suggests is ... unique. And he brings the money."

It was over. Nothing more to do but drink.

About half an hour later the bar workers went home, leaving the keys by the cash register. Through my gin-fueled haze I heard the upstairs door being kicked in, the laughter of my Brothers, the scrabbling and screaming of our latest victim. I knew what was coming. I'd seen it before, and I didn't much care to see it again. But something compelled me to stay.

For such an important ritual, there was little ceremony. Brother Green Jacket took a place along the wall. One of the masked lads stood on a rickety wooden chair and yelled, "Our Brother, #38999, becomes a full-fledged member of the Murder tonight!" The Brother in question, slight beneath his burgundy brocade jacket, hoisted his gla.s.s high as the others bellowed their congratulations. Furniture and feet sc.r.a.ped against the concrete floor as they cleared a s.p.a.ce around him. He stood, conveniently enough, above the floor's drainage grating.

The Brothers I'd rode with brought the bag down. We'd s.n.a.t.c.hed the zombie off the street right before hitting the Roes. I had no idea who he was-only that he'd been unlucky enough to shuffle past our carriage in the alleyway where we'd been waiting for darkness to fall. We'd been a.s.signed the responsibility of bringing a "party favor" back with us.