World's End

Page 139

saw her wearing the day I came here, the day I saw the

Lake kill the men on the platform. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, I see that the shoulder and neckline of the shift are torn; I remember that I was the one who tore them. I look away self-consciously as she glances at me. "What else is there to try?" I ask her reflection.

"You'll see," she says, gazing through me. She dips her fingers into the bright liquid, drawing swirls and lines across her face. I remember the patterning she wore when I saw her on the platform. I look down at the faded patterns on my own arms; finally I know how they got there.

I hear the tower door burst open, and heavy footsteps cross the floor of the next room.

Suddenly Goldbeard is

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

standing in the doorway. He looks from Song to me with morbid eagerness. "Him?" he asks, his hands flexing.

"Now, Song?"

Song draws a leisurely line of red down her bare arm, and smiles. "Just hold him," she says softly.

I stand frozen, too stunned by the unexpectedness of this to do anything at all. Goldbeard moves behind me;

his huge hands circle my throat and tighten. My own hands fly up in reflex, prying at his fingers.

"Don't," Song says. "Don't move, and he won't hurt you." She goes on calmly painting herself.

i77

JOAND. VINGE

My hands drop, and the pressure on my throat eases.

I take a deep breath, trying not to think. Fear leaves my mind too clear. Song comes toward me, carrying the pot of paint. She dips her fingers into the liquid again. She

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

draws a line down my cheek, and then another. Is this all? I wonder dimly. But the paint has an oddly familiar consistency ... a faintly nauseating odor. The color-- A trickle of red drips onto the corner of my Up, and I lick at it with my tongue. A salty sweetness fills my mouth.

Blood. I spit and gag, knocking Song's reddened hand away. Goldbeard's thick fingers close like a band of iron around my throat, crushing my windpipe until my ears sing, until my vision blurs and my knees buckle under me . . . and I stop struggling.

He holds me on my feet, letting me breathe again in ragged gasps, while Song smears me lovingly with blood.