There's always been rumors about the Order. Rumors they are in the slave trade, that they buy children and raise them to be killers, rumors that they experiment in the depths of their compounds, looking for a cure to the disease everyone knows can't be cured.

And there is talk of a library, a vast collection of clippings, newspaper articles from the change that are gathered and collected-here, apparently.

A soft light glows through the room. I want to look through the record of the Change.

"Will this be quiet enough, miss?" The bartender asks.

I turn, smiling at him. "It's perfect, thank you so much."

He nods and starts to turn away. "Oh. You are, of course, welcome to pursue our shelves. Make yourself at home."

My fingers twitch, involuntarily, at his words. I wait as he smiles one last time and slips out the door. In the sudden quiet, I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of mourning incense and smoke, leather and hot plastic. I take a step toward the bookshelves and pause. Omar's words from upstairs are still echoing in my head. He seems to ascribe to the same philosophy on information as Finn-which means virtually none. But after a little time with him, I'm getting better at picking up Finnformation. He gave me more than he thought-more than he probably wanted. I grab a few books at random and sit at the table stacked with papers. They're neatly ordered, divided by Haven and month. I grab a stack about Haven 1 and start paging through it. There's almost no chance that a random child would have been doc.u.mented during the change-the only one who mattered was Emilie Milan, and after her death triggered the change, no one was able to spend much time reporting any news. Not until things settled, and that took almost two years.

But there was always news from Haven 1. It's where the government retreated to-the president and his advisors sent out news bulletins to keep people's hope up.

There wasn't much beyond that-emergency PSA announcements, a few articles about the measure to approve Haven building and mandatory evacs.

One name-Sean Finnegan-keeps popping up. A friend of the President Buchman. He worked with WHO and led the CDC team trying to find a way to combat the infection. I see him again and again, until the fall of Detroit three years after the change. I don't remember that-but Collin does.

Detroit fell in a wave of blood. No one expected it. The cold slowed the infects, and the gun-toting gangs put them down almost as fast as the zoms rose. Then a horde swarmed-one that migrated down from Canada, and the city collapsed under the sheer numbers of the zombies.

The scientist is briefly mentioned-a tragic casualty in the fall. The president hosted a funeral, which raised a few eyebrows and made the news, such as it was. There was a blonde girl there, a pretty, thin creature standing, somber and dignified, next to the president and the casket.

The president's daughter.

I dig back, pondering the information I have. Finn has a slight accent, which means he originated somewhere else-and was probably trapped here by the zombie apocalypse. He has contacts everywhere and enough money to move small mountains.

And the High Priest of the Blessed Order knows him from a past life. That is the hardest part to reconcile, the part that doesn't fit. Who was he-who were his parents-when the world ended? It's the only way to explain his wealth and prestige.

I flip the file closed and reach for the stack that's largest-the articles that follow the Battle for the East.

There was a small contingent of college students who couldn't put aside their civil rights hang-ups and refused to fight the zombies. Most of those were eaten. The only civil right a zombie cares about is the right to eat anyone's brain.

The only use for people like that was reporting, and in that crazy time, everyone needed to have a use. So they were sent to the front lines, reporting back during the war. A lot of them died. Those who didn't got over their civil rights issues and killed, because that is the only way to survive in this world.

I find Omar in the eighth article. There's a square box of text detailing an offensive to reclaim Methuen, a small town in Ma.s.sachusetts. Omar is mentioned in the article, but it's the picture that captures my attention.

Omar was young-younger than I am now. But he was still a small mountain of a man, his body wrapped in fatigues and zombie-resistant armor. His expression is lighter somehow, more hopeful.

Before the inevitability of the war hit him.

There are other people in the picture, but the one who draws my attention stands at Omar's right, a blank expression on his face.

He looks the same. Same empty eyes, lithe body, close-cropped hair. Same full lips that refuse to smile. Same disdainful impatience oozing from his negligent disregard of the world around him.

Finn. He fought in the war-they let him. It doesn't explain his wealth, but other things make a little more sense, the foggy lens of who he is twisting into focus a little more.

I hear him enter the room, the air charged with his irritation as he stalks toward me.

I slide the article away and twist in my chair to meet him. Sitting feels too vulnerable, standing too aggressive. There is no good way to confront Finn O'Malley.

He stares at me in silence for a few moments, long enough that I want to fidget, but refuse to.

"What are you doing, Nurrin?" he asks, finally, his voice low and tightly controlled. Even with that control, he sounds furious, and it makes my own anger swell to meet his.

"Reading," I answer blandly.

"You're fishing," he says, glancing at the closed files in front of me.

"Does that bother you? I don't believe in blind trust, O'Malley, and you've done nothing to earn mine."

His expression tightens-something about that bothers him. But he doesn't address it, doesn't tell me why. Instead, "I told you nowhere alone."

Really? "That's your hang up?" I demand, my voice going up a little despite my effort to remain calm. "You kicked me out, remember? You didn't want me overhearing whatever was so d.a.m.n important. Well, f.u.c.k you-you can't decide that and then expect me to trot back to the room like a docile little wind-up toy. I'm not that girl, and I'm not your arm candy. If that's what you want, pretty sure there's a whole casino full of girls who can keep their mouths shut. Go find one," I snap.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he says tightly. "And being angry isn't an excuse for risking your life, you f.u.c.king idiot."

I smile, a nasty edge to it. "You have to give a d.a.m.n to be angry."

I finally stand, and Finn is close enough that I can feel the heat if him a hair's breath away, a slip of air and cloth separating us.

"If you risk yourself again, because you're too f.u.c.king impulsive and childish, I'll chain you to the d.a.m.n bed until its time to go home."

I blink, almost take a step back. He's got that look in his eyes, the one that is feral and disturbing.

"Do you understand me?"

"If you touch me, I'll cut your b.a.l.l.s off and feed them to you," I whisper.

He smirks at me. "Last time I touched you, you liked it, little girl."

Rage and humiliation flare through me, chasing a spike of arousal. "Go f.u.c.k yourself," I snap.

He shoves me into the wall, his mouth hovering above mine, and I can almost taste him. I push back against the wall, as far from him as possible. "Collin will kill you for this," I whisper, and I hate that my voice shakes.

Regret flickers over his face, briefly, and he steps back, giving me a little breathing room. "You might be right about that. But I would risk it to have you alive."

"Why?" I ask, before I can stop myself.

He steps away, and I can breathe, the air slipping through me and leaving me weak in the knees.

"Come on. Omar invited us to dinner."

Chapter 5.

Invitations The room we go to isn't a public one. It's quiet, hidden from the crowds. Here, there is no noise from the casino, no mourning incense, none of the lightly clad waitress and heavily armed guards. Here there is only a table, low hanging lights, and the mountainous black priest. He watches us with curious detachment as Finn escorts me across the room and waits for me to sit. The table is already set with plates of chicken in a creamy sauce and lumpy potatoes, a salad topped with vinegar and oil, and a crusty loaf of bread. I stare at the wine as Finn drops with negligent grace next to me.

"Eat," Omar says, waving at the food. I reach for the wine, and Finn calmly reaches out, slapping my hand down. He stares at his friend in silence. Omar makes a half smile, half grimace. He takes a healthy sip of my wine and a small bite of everything on my plate. Finn doesn't say anything, just watches him for a long time before some of the tension eases out of him and he nods at me. Omar shakes his head, a little. "A lesser man would find your suspicions offensive, my friend."

"A lesser man wouldn't find me at the table with him," Finn answers. He doesn't reach for food, but I'm starving, so I take a mutinous bite. Screw him and his suspicious a.s.s.

"What do you want, Omar?" I ask. He's already spoken to Finn-anything that was important, anyway. I'm under no delusions about my importance to this man.

"It's Third Day," he says simply.

s.h.i.t. Finn goes tense and alert next to me, and I shift in my seat, an instinct as old as I am raising its head. I want to bolt, find a hole to hide in until the danger has pa.s.sed. Finn's fingertips brush my leg, and I shiver, but stay in my seat. The two bites of chicken roll nervously in my stomach, threaten to make a reappearance. This is why he wasn't eating.

"The sacrifice is in a few minutes. I wanted to extend an invitation to join us."

For a heartbeat, I don't understand him. He can't have offered that. No one but the Order observes the sacrifice-it's one of their most closely guarded rituals.

"We wouldn't want to intrude," Finn says, tensing to stand.

Omar smiles, a wolfish expression, all teeth and menace. "I insist."

Finn slides a glance at me, a question in his eyes. I force a sick smile. Finn looks back to Omar. "Lead the way, friend."

Chapter 6.

The Stuff of Nightmares The casino has been emptied, and above us, there is a low, long wail of a siren. I freeze, and Finn's arm wraps around my waist like a steel band, pulling me close and dragging me along.

"What is the story, here?" Omar says, glancing over us. "I know her name can't really be Kelsey."

"She isn't important to you," Finn says, and his voice is so dismissive tears actually sting my eyes. I stare at the floor, ignoring both of them as I stumble after the two men through the deserted casino. Omar's gaze rests on me, a hot brand of pity.

What would he do, if he knew that Finn hadn't brought a piece of a.s.s into his stronghold, but a First?

Stupid question-he'd throw me into a cage until next year's sacrifice.

We reach the back of the casino, and Omar presses a code into a small box by a vault door. A tiny blood test appears, and he waits while the needle p.r.i.c.ks his finger. It flashes green and the door slides open. Three armed guards are waiting on the other side, guns pointed at us.

"Stand down." Omar barks the order sounding more like a drill instructor than a priest, and the soldiers snap to obey. One hesitates, and Omar steps into his s.p.a.ce, the gun barrel pressing against his chest. The soldier's eyes go wide and startled. "Stand. Down," Omar murmurs, his voice like a roll of thunder.

It makes sense, now. How a decorated war hero became the High Priest in the Stronghold. A militant order needs a militant leader.

"They are my guests," Omar says. The soldiers glance over us curiously as Omar leads us past them, into a long narrow hallway. With each step, I can hear the beat of drums and the chanting of the Order-the sacrifice is near, and the faithful have worked themselves into a frenzy that this will be the time, the last First that needs to die to end it all.

If there is anything that makes me think humanity should have died when the zombies rose, it is the idiotic blind faith of the Order. We're too stubborn for that though.

As we round a corner, the noise of the crowd swells to a fever pitch, a hysterical beating of drums and shrieks for salvation. I stare at the arena. Before the change, it was a place for entertainment, a place to watch men box and women in tiny outfits parade around them. It was a place of depraved amus.e.m.e.nt-and now, it's a floor stained with the blood of my sisters and brothers.

The boxing ring has been modified a little-chain link fencing, fortified by steel bands, circles it, topped with razor wire. It's what we use to protect our schools and children in a Haven, what tops our walls-the wire is perfect for catching and shredding anything that comes near it.

And now it will trap the sacrifice.

Omar steps into the room, and a acolyte in a scarlet robe immediately moves to stand next to him. "Trina will take you to your seats. We'll talk again, after the sacrifice."

Finn watches Omar as he strides into the ma.s.s of Order faithful. The robed sea parts before the black priest, his black robe licking at the people he pa.s.ses.

Our seats are in the front, a small, secure box. We're separated from the ma.s.ses, a position of some importance. And one where we can't avoid what's happening.

"Can you watch this?" Finn asks, his voice warm in my ear. I nod, jerkily.

Omar's voice booms out, over the drums and chanting, "Faithful! Bring forth the sacrifice!"

The chanting falters, and a shrill scream rips through the room, hitting the spectators like fuel to a fire. They surge, a physical wave of people, desperate to reach the girl being ripped from her little hidden room. The scream comes again, chasing chill b.u.mps over my skin. I know that noise. It's broken and shrill, furious and hungry. It's the noise of mindless desire and death.

People thought, before the change, that zombies moaned. They don't. A moan is the noise someone makes when they are dying, when they are broken. Zombies scream-because only a scream can convey the rage they feel, and the endless hunger.

I clench my eyes closed, and distantly, I'm aware of Finn prying my hand off the chair, wrapping my fingers around his own, a calloused anchor holding me in the here and now, reminding me he's given me a promise.

The girl comes into view, and I struggle not to flinch. Her hair is long and blonde, braided neatly. Her green eyes are wide and unseeing-she's drugged out of her mind. It's a small blessing. Her handler shoves her into the cage, and she blinks against the blinding lights, a hand coming up to shield her eyes. Her dress is simple, a white flowing garment that covers her from throat to toe. She's perfect-a pure, untouched First.

"As we were saved the third day by a First, may we be saved again. And may the blood of the Firsts appease the Unclean-may it earn their grace and our salvation."

"Grace and salvation," the faithful chant back, almost o.r.g.a.s.mic in their fervor.

Omar closes his eyes, and Finn's grip on my hand tightens. Her eyes, blank and unseeing, meet mine, a tiny half smile on her lips.

And the chute opens, a pack of five zombies tumbling down from the ceiling to land in the ring. One lands wrong, and the snap of its leg reverberates through the sudden silence of the crowd. I bite down hard on my lip, desperate to keep my scream inside as the zombies survey the room. One, a big male with a b.l.o.o.d.y chest wound and blood-clotted eyes, sniffs and throws his head back, screaming.

It breaks through the drug haze, and behind the zombies, the girl whimpers. A female whips around, her teeth bared as she hisses and sees the girl. It takes less than two seconds for the other four to locate her, and less than three for the girl to realize she's f.u.c.ked.

She screams as the first zombie lunges, rolling away. Black gore and blood from the zom smears on her dress, and she stumbles as the infect catches a better hold, jerking her closer. I'm surprised when she lashes out, kicking the zombie squarely in the face. He stumbles, a screeching whine building in his throat. The girl uses the second of time she's bought to jump on the fence. Below her the zombies are battering it as she climbs, shaking the links and jumping for her scrambling feet. Two have turned away and are snapping at the fence, fingers stretched to reach the crowd on the other side. There's a murmur of discontent from the crowd. I have a heartbeat of thinking she'll get away, that she'll find her way to safety.

Then she hits the razor wire, and the scent of blood hits the zombies. The girl screams as the zombies converge under her, shaking the fence and lunging upward at her, driven mad by the scent of blood and flesh. She shrieks as two infects slam into the fence, making it buck and almost throwing her off. She clutches at the razor wire, and I can see it digging into her fingers, slicing through them. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she screams, an agonized noise, as the sheer bladed metal bites deep, deeper. A finger falls into the pack of zombies, and Finn mutters a curse next to me. I'm barely aware. Her eyes have opened again, her pretty face contorted by pain and fury. Her eyes lock on mine again, and I flinch, almost look away.

And then she falls and the only thing I can see is a spray of blood. The wet sound of her scream, and ripping flesh, the sound of broken teeth eating. I can't-I look away, bury my head in Finn's shoulder and try to hear anything but this-anything but the screams of approval now coming from the Order and the sound of zombies tearing apart a girl whose only sin was being born the day the world went to h.e.l.l.