it out of the trench coat and tossed it underhand to me. The jar clinked as I caught it, then shifted as the heart moved.
Ra-Ame stepped between Brynner and me. “And now the blades. Be careful or I will carve off her lovely nose.”
He pulled two blades from his belt and threw them into the sand, a hairbreadth from her toes.
“Kneel before me, Death that Follows.” She looked back to me. “Open the jar, Grace Roberts. Give me my heart. Do not fear, the sun will not harm it.”
I knelt in the sand and pried the lid open. Though I couldn’t remove the top, from inside, a musty odor like burnt mushroom wafted.
Ra-Ame hefted the Deliverator. “Guns. These are no weapons for a warrior.” She threw the Deliverator into the brush and drew her blades. “You thought to harm me, Brynner Carson. To wage war against me and my children. But you are not fit. You move like an ox. You have no skill. And now you will die in the desert, just as I told you.”
Brynner rose. “If I’m going to die, I’m going out fighting.” He raised his head, reaching back inside the trench coat.
Four knives. I’d brought him four.
Ra-Ame laughed and curled her fingers in, beckoning to him. “You are worthless, lesser Carson. Your father, I would have killed from a distance. A man of skill. A warrior my equal. He would have recognized me so long ago. You are not your father.”
Brynner hung his head, struck by her words. “So everyone keeps telling me.” He drew out his hands, holding twin Deliverators. And shot her twice. “Dad would have insisted on knives.” He followed up, putting a bullet through one eye. “Dad would have gone toe to toe with you.”
He fired again, blasting into her kneecaps, and then over and over until both guns ran dry. “I’m not my father.”
Then he reached into his jacket and withdrew a single blade.
Ra-Ame collapsed forward, her limbs moving weakly, but the holes in her did not bleed.
As he knelt to drive it through her skull, Ra-Ame convulsed. The brown skin covering her boiled like water, peeling off. Beneath it lay a ghostly, pallid carapace. She rolled, dodging his killing blow, and leaped for me.
Blind, white eyes stared at me as she came, screaming.
I ran.
I sprinted for the rocks we’d camped by, still pulling at the jar.
The moment the lid came off, a bulbous, wet mass pushed itself out onto the sand.
Brynner tackled Ra-Ame from behind, buying me precious seconds.
The heart unfolded, moving and oozing from side to side. It writhed in the sun like a monstrous black maggot or a tiny infant, letting out a high-pitched squeal.
Ra-Ame’s head jerked up at that sound, her face contorted in rage. With a kick like a draft horse, she sent Brynner flying and charged toward me. I swung the jar like a club, hitting her in the head, causing the jar to rattle again. Rattle?
Brynner tackled her, rolling in a pile of flailing blades. He shouted without looking at me, “Kill the heart, Grace.” I turned over the jar, and a dagger slipped out into my palm.
Four daggers. Two in the sand. One his hand . . . and one in mine.
I flipped it over and drove it down through the heart.
It lurched to the side and lashed a slimy tentacle up at me, wrapping around my wrist. It twisted, revealing a parrot-like beak underneath, with razor edges, and let out a new squeal. Not terror. Rage.
In the blink of an eye it was on me, clicking its jaws as it forced itself toward my throat. I fell backward, blocking its bite with my arm. The beak sank into my arm, sending a river of pain through me.
Before me, Ra-Ame and Brynner faced off.
If before Brynner and Ra-Ame fought like a mongoose and snake, now it was like watching a shadow fight with the light, or bolts of lightning entwined.
Ra-Ame twisted, spun, leaped. And her blades returned to her, dripping with Brynner’s blood from half a dozen slices. Brynner stepped back, red stains spreading through cuts in the trench coat.
When Ra-Ame spoke, her voice rattled like bones in a coffin. “Run away, lesser Carson. You do not know the art of movement.”
“No.” Brynner slipped the tattered trench coat off and tossed it on the ground. “Al-ibna Al-habeeba.” His pronunciation of her name matched hers perfectly.
Amy hissed, “I did not know you spoke that language.”