“What is white?”
I looked around. “Uh—” Everything was green and brown. “Like snow. Did they look like they’re covered in snow?”
The wolf shook its nose. “No. They looked more like you.” It lifted one front paw carefully, stretching it until a dark, graceful copy of its leg jutted out from its silhouette on the grassy ground below.
Other shadowless. Were they wandering? Or also heading somewhere in particular, like us?
“There were quite a few at first,” the wolf continued. “But they all split up. Headed in different directions. It’s a very strange way to travel. I don’t know why they don’t move in a pack. It’s always better to be together than alone. We wolves know that.”
“But are any near here?” I asked. “It’s important.”
“Only one, and then two more that way.” It pointed in another direction with its ears, twisting them sideways. “You want to add them to your pack?”
“No,” I said. “We want to avoid them.”
“If you stay here for another few hours, you won’t cross their paths then.”
“You’re sure?”
The wolf puffed up its fur, as if to say, I’m sure.
I nodded. The wolf edged closer and then sat down again, to better smell me. “Thank you for telling us,” I said.
The wolf shrugged. “Will you really move your den, once the others pass by?”
“Tomorrow at dawn,” I said. Once Zachary had finished painting, and it dried overnight. “Are you going to build your new one here after we do?”
“I’m considering it,” the wolf said, lost in thought. “I’m really considering it.” Then it narrowed its liquid eyes and looked at me again. “I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to a human,” it added.
“Shit,” I said.
“There isn’t,” it replied. “I would have smelled it.”
It had happened again, Ory. The deer, the knife handle, your wedding band, now this. Damnit! I’m trying so hard. But I can’t stop it all. “I’ve forgotten something,” I tried to explain to the wolf. I’m terrified now of what else I’ve also forgotten, but don’t know that I’ve forgotten it. I hope you’re still okay. I hope you stay okay until we reach New Orleans. “Do you know if we’re heading the right way?” I asked the wolf.
“Where are you heading?”
“New Orleans. It’s a—a huge den, with thousands of people.”
“I don’t know,” it said. It fluffed its fur again. “We don’t know the names of the human dens. We mark them by the pattern of their scents. You don’t know its pattern, do you?”
“No,” I said.
“Sorry, then.”
“It’s all right.” I tried to smile. The wolf looked at the RV again. On the ground, the sun had made its furry canine shadow lean toward me, so close I could almost reach out and stroke its flat, dark ears against the ground. I watched the grass move under it in the breeze, back and forth, while the shadow held perfectly still.
“I have to go,” the wolf announced suddenly. “A hare.”
“Oh,” I stammered. “Well—good luck.”
“Don’t ask the sparrows the way,” it said as it darted off. “They always lie.”
Finally, in the late afternoon, Zachary came slowly around the back of the RV, his skin dyed to his wrists. He nodded tiredly to all of us. He had finished. The new map was done. We all walked as slowly as we could, to keep from scrambling in our nervous excitement.
It was beautiful, Ory. I wish you could see it. Where they’d once written the things we could no longer read, the entire side of the RV—from roof to wheel well, covering the now-useless words—Zachary had painted a giant mural. It’s a picture of all nine of us. We’re in the RV, which is on a huge multilane road, heading toward a distant city. And the most genius part: Zachary figured out how to ensure we keep heading south on this road, even without signs or maps or other people to ask for directions. The moment he painted is clearly during sunset. The sky is all oranges and yellows, and dark purplish black near the top. The sun is halfway under the horizon to the right of the RV, and the RV’s shadow—what a beautiful shadow he painted—stretches long to the left.
I didn’t know if it was the right thing to do, but I hugged Zachary as we all looked. We’re going to make it, Ory. We’re going to make it to New Orleans. No matter if we can’t read the signs or see the roads, or even what happens to our memories, there’s no way to mistake which direction we should head now.
Orlando Zhang
THE ARMY WENT OUT AGAIN EIGHT MORE TIMES. SIX BOOKS, all useless, according to Imanuel. Not the right kind. Medical textbooks and technical manuals seemed like the most useful type to Ory—they had shadows and useful reference information—but Imanuel only shook his head. He wanted novels, story collections, biographies, history, memoir. And of course, Paul’s book. They went for a ninth trade.
“Hold the line!” Ahmadi cried as the Reds wormed their way between the Iowa’s soldiers. They were just inside the gates of the Red King’s courtyard, struggling to stay bunched together to protect the items they were hoping to barter for books. Trades had gone smoothly for the last few weeks, but that day, something was off. Ory searched the chaos, but there was nothing that stood out as different from the last time. “Malik! What’s going on?” he heard Ahmadi yell.
“I don’t know,” he called back to her. “But something’s got them agitated. Keep tight!”
“Keep tight!” she confirmed again at a shout.
“I’m going to try something,” Ory whispered as he came shoulder to shoulder with her.
“No, you’re not,” Ahmadi replied.
“Just trust me.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing yet,” she growled. “Do not fuck us up.”
“I won’t,” Ory said.
“Don’t do it, then!” she ordered again, and shoved another Red.
But Ory was already edging around the group, toward the entrance to the Red King’s library, where the Reds were pouring out. Holding only a bat, he was almost invisible in the crush. His shadow flickered up the short plaza of concrete stairs.
He could hear a strange, muffled moaning the closer he drew. Every time a Red glanced over at him, Ory pretended he was just winded or overwhelmed with fear and was crouching uselessly on the steps until he regained control of his nerves. Before they could look too long, Ahmadi would bump them harshly, to draw their attention back to the chaos. She threw him a murderous look for disobeying her, but it was too late now for her to do anything but help him succeed.
From his place just before the entrance, he could tell that inside it was musty and humid, like a swamp. Dried trails of red paint looked black against the windows, where they obscured most of the gray, overcast light. There were more bodies inside, moving back and forth as if agitated.
A massive shape blocked the light completely then as it strode past the door, backlit, and Ory realized with a tremor that he’d just glimpsed the Red King.
The moan came again. The hulking crimson shape of the Red King was moving quickly toward the sound.
If he stood up and looked inside, Ory would have only seconds. Please don’t kill me, he prayed as he lurched forward to peer in. Please don’t kill me.
He was still expecting to see a library, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust and understand what was there instead. The Reds had cleared out most of the room by shoving the bookcases toward the outer walls. Some places were five or six deep, others only one. A few of the heaviest were completely tipped over and had been fashioned into makeshift tables or storage, and Ory could see scattered lone pages here and there on the floor, long since lost and trampled thousands of times. But it seemed that most of the shelves were still upright and lined with books.
In the center of the room, a refugee camp sprawled, little puddles of blankets and balled-up fabric scattered across the bare floor. In the dimness, Ory could just barely make out the Red King crouched beside a woman on the groun
d. She writhed involuntarily, then opened her eyes and looked right at him through the doors. Her belly was so swollen it looked like it was going to consume her.
A baby, Ory realized, just before two Reds clamped their crimson hands down on his arms and threw him into the skirmishing crowd below.
“TOO RISKY,” MALIK SAID.
“We have no choice,” Imanuel replied.
“One of us could pose as you.”
Imanuel laughed. “And successfully deliver a high-risk baby? How much obstetrics training did you get in the D.C. police force? The Red King will burn the whole place down for sure if it goes wrong.”
“Train me, then. Teach me what to do, and I’ll go in and do it,” Malik said.
“We don’t have four years to boot camp you through a medical degree, Malik. We have four hours, based on Ory’s description of the mother. Maybe less.” Imanuel shook his head. “I’ve delivered hundreds of babies. It has to be me.” He made a fist. “This is our chance. The best chance we’re ever going to get to walk in there and find Paul’s book.”
“Do you really think the Red King is going to let us choose which book we want, even for—whatever she is to him?” Ory asked. Ahmadi glanced up from the planning table—they made eye contact for the first time since he’d deliberately disobeyed her orders. Stares can’t kill, Ory thought. He buckled after two seconds and studied his hands intently. The guilt he felt at having made her so angry surprised him. It was an achingly familiar sensation—it was the same way he used to feel after arguing with Max.
“For this, maybe,” Imanuel finally said.
Malik shook his head. “Even so, we still can’t let you go alone.”
“The Red King won’t let a whole unit walk in, weapons out. You know it.”
“He’ll have to, if he wants her and the baby to survive,” Ahmadi insisted.
The Red woman’s face, streaked with agony, flashed into Ory’s mind. Did she even know what a baby was anymore? He tried to imagine a child in that red place, being painted crimson for the first time, having its soft downy hair dyed.
“Or he’ll burn an entire wing of the library,” Imanuel said.
“This is not up for discussion,” Malik interrupted. “I won’t allow our General to walk into the enemy stronghold with no reinforcements or weapons.”
“They aren’t the enemy,” Imanuel said softly. “They just forgot.”
Malik put his face in his hands and sighed. Ahmadi looked worn as well. They’d all been arguing for almost an hour, and were still at a stalemate.
“I’m the only one who’s ever done it,” Imanuel continued. “I went into all that red once before, and came back out.”
“That was a year ago, at least,” Ahmadi said. “The Red King had only just appeared and had half the forces he has now. You said the fever was so bad he was nearly delirious—he might not even remember you.”
“He’ll remember,” Imanuel said.
She sighed. “General, I admire your determination, but that’s just not a good enough reason to undertake a suicide mission, no matter how uniquely qualified you are. I can’t work with emotional pleas. I need strategy. I need a tactical explanation for why you should do this alone.”
“Well then, how about this one?” Imanuel looked at her. “New Orleans. Now.”
Ory froze.
New Orleans.
Malik and Ahmadi were staring at each other from across the table, trying to calculate the other’s reaction. He could feel the fluttering, infectious excitement radiating off them, so strong it made it hard to breathe. “You’re serious?” Malik said at last.
Imanuel nodded. “If she’s already in active labor, which sounds pretty likely, based on Ory’s description, then we can’t afford to send a unit with me. Because you’ll need all the help you can get to make ready before I get back with that fucking book.”
Malik and Ahmadi were almost hovering in their chairs now. Ory couldn’t breathe fast or deep enough, it seemed. New Orleans. It was really happening. He would get his two soldiers, for two weeks. He would search again. He would—no. He wouldn’t think about what would happen after. He would find Max or keep looking. There was no third way.
“Malik.” Imanuel turned to him. “Give the order right now. Operations start immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Malik said. He stood and saluted Imanuel fiercely.
Ahmadi put her hand on Imanuel’s arm for a moment as Malik marched out of the room almost at a run. “You’re sure?”
“It’s time,” Imanuel said. He put his hand over hers and squeezed reassuringly. “Give me a moment with Ory.”
Ahmadi nodded, almost in a daze, closing the door behind her as she left.
“You . . .” Ory trailed off once they were alone. He moved around the table to Imanuel’s side. He didn’t want to ask, to show his friend he didn’t fully trust him, but he had to be sure. “You still plan to . . .”
“On one condition,” Imanuel said.
Ory nodded. “Anything.”
“You actually obey Ahmadi’s orders this time.” Imanuel crossed his arms. “Don’t follow me.”
That caught him off guard. Ory figured Imanuel expected Ory to sneak off after him as soon as he left for the Red King’s territory—that wasn’t a surprise. But what did surprise him was that even if he could make it away without attracting the other soldiers’ attention, Imanuel still didn’t want him to do it. “What’s just one person to cover you?” Ory asked. “It’ll make no difference to the preparations here, but you won’t be alone there.”
“You don’t have to understand. You just have to agree.” His face had the same terror in it as the first day Ory had volunteered to follow Malik and Ahmadi into his first Red trade.
“Imanuel.” Ory took a step toward him, and Imanuel visibly flinched. Was it fear of losing him too, after he’d lost Paul? Ory wondered. What had the Red King done to him and his soldiers? What had he done that they weren’t doing right back? “Imanuel. I’m not your soldier. I’m your friend.”
“This isn’t up for debate,” Imanuel said. “If you want help finding Max, you have to agree: you report to Ahmadi, you follow her orders, or you don’t get your two scouts at the end. That’s my condition.”
Ory stared at him for a long time. “Agreed,” he finally said.
AFTER IMANUEL LEFT TO PREPARE HIS MEDICAL EQUIPMENT, Ory went to the barracks room to retrieve his armor. The rest of the soldiers were already in the main hall, assembled in front of Malik.
“Be back here in five minutes,” Ahmadi said to Ory as she saw him pass. He saluted back as he ran.
In the barracks, he double-checked he still had everything he’d brought, in case he didn’t come back once he’d received his two soldiers. He looked at Max’s photo hidden in the flap of his wallet again. Below, he heard a chorus of cheers echo. He drew the picture closer, to make out every detail in the dim light.
He wished that she had been there in the Iowa with him. She would be thinking about it all: finding Imanuel again, Washington, D.C., the Red King. Imanuel’s mission to barter a safe birth for the last memory of his husband, locked inside a paper cover. Ory knew what she’d ask him as soon as they were alone and could talk. It was the same thing he’d ask her. “Do you think the baby will be born without a shadow?”
TODAY WAS SO HOT, ORY. THE SUN SHONE DOWN ON US FROM a cloudless sky, relentless. Every surface inside the RV gleamed, and then stung if I set my bare elbow on it by accident.
“Just for a little bit,” Ysabelle said to us when she couldn’t take the temperature anymore.
I glanced at Ursula warily. She made a face that reminded me of the one you make when you’re nervous or frustrated—I could tell she didn’t want to stop either. “We’re making good time,” I replied.
“We won’t make any time if the engine overheats,” Victor added. His face was tightly drawn. I saw that Ursula also noticed before her gaze snapped back to the road.
“Don’t remember how to
fix it anymore if that happens?” she asked quietly.
“No,” Victor admitted.
“Okay, short break,” Ursula announced. “Two hours.”
Ahead, there was a small dirt road off the main highway. We cruised down the shoulder, sighing with relief as our RV slipped under the cover of trees for the first time all day. At the bottom, we parked in a small clearing.
“I’ll take first watch,” I offered. Ursula nodded gratefully and went with Victor to open the hood, to help with cooling the engine. Steam engulfed them as she locked it upright.
“Wes,” Intisaar called as he began to drift away, and shrugged her shoulders at me to mean, I’ll be right back. They both disappeared around a tree.
I waited, but they didn’t reappear. “Ursula,” I warned. Her velvety head popped out from behind the hood. It was starting to feather slightly as it grew out. Then we heard Intisaar shouting.
“Inti!” Dhuuxo cried. We all sprinted for the trees, and then saw what it was that had made her yell.
“Look at it!” she cried from farther down the hill. Wes was already running.
Ory, it was a godsend. The dark, clear water, the sun shining off it, the trees surrounding us on all sides. It was our own private lake.
“Race you,” Lucius said, and then took off before Victor could reply.
“So clear,” Ursula murmured beside me, transfixed. “It’s gorgeous.”
They were all streaming past me now, making for the water. For an instant, I felt a niggling worry at the back of my mind. Something about the lake was bad. I couldn’t remember. Victor jumped in and resurfaced laughing. Sun broke across the ripples.
Then the sensation was gone. I smiled and ran downhill to where they were at the shore.
They must have been tracking us for hours after that.
Ursula was driving, as usual, and I was in the front passenger seat, holding the map. I know that I don’t know how to use it anymore, but I liked to keep it anyway. Knowing we still had it made me feel safer, for some reason. Like I still know how to get us to New Orleans. Even though it was afternoon, the heat of the day still hadn’t broken yet, and I was bracing a hand against my brow to cut the glare, leaning back against the headrest. The keys jangled lightly in the ignition as we bounced over the potholes.
The Book of M Page 25