Chapter 26

  ~ Playing the Hero ~

  Milo could tell he was being watched.

  He could also tell Nima didn't know. They had been traversing sinuous corridors filled with debris, skeletons and ferns, but she kept bouncing from one point of interest to the next, not bothered by their mysterious follower. She reminded him of a butterfly, especially with her hair bouncing behind her like flapping wings and her proboscis-looking scarf. Milo knew a lot about butterflies. He'd learn by heart their anatomy and their life cycle, but he had never seen a cocoon in real life, unfortunately. And after learning all there was to know about them, he'd decided that he preferred moths.

  In his daydreaming, he accidentally kicked a little rock, sending it rolling before him. The sound made Nima jump, but when she realised it was just him, they exchanged a smile and continued their exploration. The stadium was disappointing so far. Well, they had not reached the field yet, but the service corridors were all the same. Sure, the flowers smelled sweet and the dangling ivy draping the ceiling and walls made it look just like a jungle between walls… but there were no treasures. And nothing to teach Milo new things.

  Still, the disinterest had allowed him to focus on their stalker; they were a talented spy, of that he was sure. They had made no sound, had stayed out of view, but they weren't good enough to fool him. Milo knew the feeling after having felt it so often: the cold sensation at the base of the neck, the inexplicable pull to look behind.

  Milo could tell he was being watched… but he hadn't expected any less.

  This entire mission was a test, a means to evaluate his skills and ensure he had everything within him to become one of the Children. And in this context, surely Nariel would have kept an eye on them. But he never tried to spot her. Not once. The number one rule when you're being followed is to pretend like you are not, Nariel had taught him. Don't give away your only advantage just to satisfy your curiosity, and instead drive them towards where you want them to be.

  No doubt, this was all part of the test. She wanted to see how long he would pretend not to notice, how long before he cracked, or let it slip to Nima. But he wouldn't. He would play the part faithfully, keeping his confidence and innocence. A champion never spook at ghosts. He'd play the part until he found somewhere to lead them to. A place where Nariel would have nowhere else to go, where, along with Nima, they could surprise her. A trap.

  And yet, doubt had almost bloomed inside of him when, passing a yawning gap in the ceiling, above rebars and vines, he had caught the faint sight of a boot—just a glint, before it was gone. Nariel would not have made the mistake. Except no, she would have, Milo knew; she would have made precisely this kind of slip to dupe him into thinking it wasn't her. But he was smart. He wouldn't fall for it.

  So they continued, Nima none the wiser, up to a higher level, almost at the top of the stadium. They had been looking for a vantage point from which they could have a broad view of the pitch and the stands, make sure all was calm. And then, in the middle of a hall, they had found it: the floor was partially collapsed on the seats below, and they could see the stadium extend beyond. Perfect.

  The skies had shifted all morning long, sometimes letting the sun pass and sometimes hosting menacing cumulonimbi. And in this moment, it was almost as dark as dusk, and the wild grass covering the pitch swayed under strong winds. Nima had continued onward to take a look at posters down the hall—sometimes Milo realised she made him look serious—so it fell to him to survey the potential future home Elarion was looking for.

  Milo would do it properly and not let anything slip under his attention, even as he had a suspicion this might solely be an excuse to test him. So, he stooped down and embraced his knees, comfortably set for the watch.

  He spotted movements in the meadows. At first, they were subtle, indistinguishable from wind. And in the midst of the massive pitch where moss and gnarled roots had swallowed the centre, he could have missed it. But something was definitely moving through it. He could tell when it left a trace in the grass, against the wind. This was no breeze. But whatever thing lay down there, it remained low to the ground; it was creeping. Crawling.

  Milo placed a hand against the cracked concrete and bent slightly closer to the ledge. And there he saw another move. And another. And where the grass was lower, he could finally see one of them. Scurrying under eaves, paler than Nima and quicker than a rat, one of those famished and trembling under rubble.

  The things looked almost human and walked on all fours like a baby would, except with ease, as if they had done it their whole life. One climbed the side of a stand with its bent limbs, and its eyes caught the faintest trace of light.

  Suddenly, Milo became aware of the cold. The scarf he had left at home would have protected him from the freshness of the day, from the fear. Yet, he was exposed then. And maybe it was his curiosity that forced him to, but he kept looking nonetheless.

  And it was their eyes that struck him. That bound him. Not just in the way they gleamed even when no sun reached them, but how they moved… They were tracking. Thinking. Those were not monsters. Unlike those, they didn't groan or stumble absently. They had the eyes of an intelligent being and the movements of a hunter. Not eyes clouded with blindness—human eyes.

  These were people.

  And yet, they still had this animal quality about them. Milo saw one of them, so very skinny… he could distinguish the bones of its spine even from here, and the white skin stretched on its ribs. And the terrifying eyes scanning for… For him. Half-hidden behind a root, the thing crouched closer and closer to a trunk. And then, with a gaunt hand placed upon the bark, it turned its head. Slowly. Milo could feel the shift; he could feel the breath come out of his lungs. He could feel the moment a connection passed between them.

  The thing was looking at him.

  As if it had known where he had been hiding all along. As if, until then, it had merely… pretended not to know. The big, gleaming eyes drew wider, and then, the thing hissed, spreading its mouth into a growl and revealing broken, yellow teeth. Milo stumbled backwards with a startled gasp. He found himself on the floor, his elbow scraped.

  Were they coming? Were they still looking?

  He scrambled to his feet, and inexplicably, Milo got closer to the broken ledge once more. His head stayed back, but his body leaned closer and closer, until he could peek at the pitch again.

  It was empty.

  The wind had shifted and the grass gone still, but there were no traces of them. Like they'd never been there in the first place. Milo knew what it meant. After the scout, came the trap. After the track, the hunt.

  "What's wrong, Milo?" Nima's voice drifted over.

  Milo couldn't look at her. His feet tingled, his stomach cramped. "We should hurry."

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. "What did you see?"

  "Bad things."

  Milo took Nima's hand without thinking and when she gave it willingly, they ran. Down the corridor, flicking away the fern leaves in their path. They descended flights of stairs, but they only went as far as two floors down. A dead end. Desperately, he looked at the faded map, grimy on the wall and with hurried fingers, he traced it. "There", he whispered. Their flight would have to continue in another aisle, where stairs would take them to another entrance. So long as the crawling people were not already swarming the place.

  But he took comfort in knowing this was a large place, and not easily traversed. That worked in their favour more than against, and in the prospective option, the crawlers came upon them: Nima was skilled with a bow, and he with a knife. Plus, Nariel would probably come out of her hiding spot if it came to that. Milo was sure of it.

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  Traversing another corridor where the ceiling had partially collapsed, Milo heard a noise. A clatter the same as when he'd kicked the rock. He gasped and nudged Nima behind a loose stone. They ducked and looked at each other. Milo placed a finger on his lips. Nima's big eyes were fixed on him, and in a sense, he was glad she was with him, but he could feel the unspoken tension in her trembling hand.

  "Milo, I'm scared."

  Milo smiled as bright as he could in the moment. "Me too. But we have to hide a little. Just like hide and seek."

  She nodded and clutched his hand tighter. That was their first time out of camp together, their first time alone without any other Children. And Milo's first encounter with the people of the shadows since… the mall. In the mall, where he'd met Dog, some had spooked him, tumbling blindly in the halls and groaning. And the second time, with the woman who'd stayed behind, he hadn't been scared somehow. But something about the people living in the stadium made him shudder, surely as much as when he dreamed a terrible dream.

  Perhaps, it was knowing they could acknowledge him. Knowing they saw him. Not just as a rat made sure you'd stay away, or a bird tilted its head for crumbs you'd leave behind, but in the way angry men's pupils glinted. In the way, the bonefire Children looked at the flames when they retold a story.

  It was the hurting.

  Nima's eyes were so very devoid of that. They were brimming with unshed tears and searching his face for steadiness, but they gave Milo no reason to be afraid. He could almost hear Dog's soft whirrs beside him, and his Mother's voice in song. Almost hear the rustling of leaves at dawn, and the fading warmth of a dusken sun.

  Milo had often tried to be stronger than he was, to take care of the rare few people he'd loved… Maybe this was the moment. The courage he'd been looking for. Not in fearlessness, but in staying through the fear. In standing side by side. He gave Nima's hand a gentle squeeze and, past the rocks and moss, on the other side of the corridor, he waited to see movement.

  Only, a squirrel dashed out and vanished behind ivy. Milo would have probably laughed if not for the clinging fear.

  They moved as silently as they could, still linked by the hands. But Milo could tell they were being watched. No, followed. This time on the same floor, not up. Maybe he could force Nariel to intervene then. Maybe he could lay his trap soon, when the hunters came crawling their way; he'd show her, in a real situation, that's what he would have done. Not as a way to protect himself, as a way to get rid of someone lurking.

  They jumped over a hole in the ground, and ahead, there was movement again. Animals, but no squirrel. It was them. Their shiny eyes moved around slowly like fireflies dancing behind bushes. Maybe Nima hadn't seen them, but he could not have missed it. Milo went left, pulling on Nima's hand.

  He remembered the tracings; this part would lead to a funnel. When they reached it, they could hide in the crook of the passage. Hide and wait, and when Nariel would come in, she'd find herself between Milo and Nima and the crawlers. And all three of them, they would fight, just like in his favourite book. A last stand in the mines. Bow and axe and sword.

  Except the shadow that came running behind them wasn't as tall as, or as confident as that of Strider. This was no Nariel.

  It was Yor.

  And just as many a night Milo had spent not listening to the oldest of the youngest back at the camp, Milo did not in that moment heed the question Yor asked. He only paid attention to the fingers placed on mossy stone and the two malicious eyes gazing at Yor's back. And there was only one thing that came to Milo's mind in this moment: fleeing with Nima.

  He grabbed her arm and bolted.

  Together, they burst through the small passage leading to the stands. They climbed stairs, rubble, and seats alike. Nima had protested, had tugged on his hand and asked him to wait, but the horn of retreat was blaring in Milo's mind. Yor was not the hero he'd been waiting for. He'd still protect Nima, of course, stand alongside her, but the plan had to change. There would be no saviour and no grand fight. There were only two children running for their lives. Until her sweat-slicked fingers escaped his grasp.

  When he turned, there was fury in her eyes. "Milo!" she screamed. "Yor needs help!"

  She had already unslung her bow and notched an arrow. Warmth flushed on Milo's cheeks, and he grabbed his knife. Maybe they stood a chance, together between the seats. Knife and bow and distraction.

  After a painful pause, Yor came running out from whence they'd come, crawlers on his back and blood on his arm. "Help me!"

  What followed was chaos. Nima loosed. One of the things yelped in pain, and another dropped from higher in the stands and landed hard on Yor. A closer snarl and teeth. A squelch. Milo didn't remember most of it. He only remembered seeing the creatures scatter and feeling the warm liquid on his hand.

  Perhaps by chance, his knife had found the throat of a crawler. The throat of what used to be human. Not much different from Milo, but hungry. A soul lost to the city and struggling to make sense of it. At that moment, the deer from the forest came back to him. The same empty eyes, the same heaviness. And the same, red blood oozing.

  He almost gagged, but Nima's voice resounded.

  "Yor!"

  Yor was collapsed onto a seat, one leg crooked. For once, Milo was lost in all of this, in what he should do or say. Yor's jacket was soaked in black blossoms, blood dripping from tears in his flesh. Milo's eyes could only jump from one crimson place to another. The neck, the arm, the ribs. The hunters had feasted before the kill.

  Nima was already beside the wounded Child. "You're okay," she lied—oh, she lied. "You're going to be okay, Yor."

  Yor did not flinch, his words came as steady as when he painted a story. "I didn't mean to scare you."

  Milo had left the animal behind and joined them, his red knife still dangling from his fingers. He didn't know where to stand. All he could hear was the heartbeat in his ears.

  Nima's hands fluttered across Yor's weakened body. "No, it's not that—"

  "I followed you," Yor continued. "It was dumb. I only wanted—I only thought I could help if you needed it. Like a real scout. Elarion's soldier."

  It was all Milo's fault, of course. He could have told Nima about what he'd seen, could have figured a plan together. "Yor, I'm—"

  "I saw them before you did," Yor said, meeting his gaze.. "I should have shouted. Should've warned you. I thought… I don't know."

  His breath sounded like an old whistling toy, one that had not been played with in years.

  Nima grabbed his shoulder. "We could go find Nariel, she'll know what to do. I'm sure we can patch you up, right?" She was smiling when she looked back at Milo, but there was a tear on her cheek.

  Milo looked at his feet.

  An expired breath escaped Yor's lungs. "Can you not tell Elarion I failed?" he said with a half-smile. "Can you tell him I fought bravely?"

  "No, you-you'll tell him yourself," Nima suggested. But Yor did not hear.

  When Milo looked at him, his body had relaxed as only those who slept could. His gaze had grown unfocused, just like the man with the letter.

  Milo took a step back. It's not me… I didn't do anything wrong. The crawlers had been vicious, and Yor… he had made a mistake too, right? Yor was there in front of him, but he wasn't anymore. That was just a shape. Milo wanted to scream at him for not running faster, for not being stronger. But instead, he turned to Nima. She would understand. She would know how to calm his racing heart.

  She was still knelt beside Yor, unwilling to let go.

  "Nima?" he managed even though his throat was dry.

  Nima looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. "Milo, I'm hurt," she said. And Milo saw it then. The skin beneath her torn sleeve was discoloured. Grey-green at the edges, it was punctuated and bloodied in a semicircle. Teeth. Her voice cracked. "It's not that deep, right?"

  Milo dropped beside her. "Oh no." He moved the fabric back up to see the wound more clearly, but that was it; it was a wound, not just a mark. "No, no, maybe… maybe we can clean it, or…" He looked around the stadium helplessly. "There might be herbs or something."

  "Milo, step away from her."

  They turned at once. Nariel was there, standing a few rows under them. Her cloak swayed, and she extended a hand. "You have to let her go."

  Milo blinked. He had missed her. She'd been following them and seeing everything they had done. And he'd not been good enough to notice, he'd only seen clumsy Yor and the obvious hunters. But what pained him was that she hadn't come to the rescue.

  "She's infected," Nariel added. "There's nothing to be done. She'll join the city's soul like all the other songbirds."

  He shook his head. "No, no… Why didn't you help? Why did you let us fight alone?"

  "Milo, it's all part—"

  "No! Don't talk!" Milo shouted. "She's fine! She's here, she's here. She's my best friend." Tears spilt down his cheeks as he wept and turned to hug Nima as tightly as he could. Holding her life in place between his arms. She was only weeping too, trembling in his arms without saying a word. A fragile, broken butterfly. "She's fine! Please, Nariel. Please!"

  "There is nothing to be done."

  Her words added only fire to the wound. Nariel was no hero. "I hate you!" he choked out.

  But the sobs came anyway, pouring out from him despite the anger.

  Nima tried to smile. She nudged him as they did when they had a funny thing to say, or when they shared a precious secret. But this time, it felt like a farewell. "It's okay, Milo, I'll be fine."

  He buried his face into her shoulder.

  Milo sat there in the half-ruined stands of a place that used to be filled with cheers and joy, for as long as he could. He had decided to stay. He would stay no matter how much it hurt, or how little time he had with her. No more regrets, no more pain divided. And if she was scared, just as much as he was, at least, she would not face it alone. He would never leave again. Not like he did with Dog, or what his mother did with him. Too often had he been forced to accept a loss before ever saying goodbye. Without ever getting the chance to let them go.

  So this time, this was it. This was goodbye.

  ***