hooks.
"What do we do with the body?" Sarah asked.
"Let's burn it," Dante said. "Burn the sac and the body both. Burn everything. Then I'll drink myself into a coma," he added. "Fabulous idea."
Sarah ignored him. "We can't toss it in the river. What if it drifts ashore? ...I suppose we could cremate you—"
"It!"
"—It, so it wouldn't be recognized." Sarah paused, frowning. "Unless you think burning it would hurt you. Give you a fever or something. Of course, we already cut it open without you fountaining blood."
At the word "blood," Dante felt his pulse with unnatural distinctness, throbbing in his neck and chest and at the base of his thumb. Goodbye, lovers: Mei's little white teeth and Tania's mound, firm as a peach beneath his hand. Goodbye, Laura my friend: thanks for the pots of green tea we drank in your tiny porcelain cups. Goodbye, Aunt Sophie, with your coins and cigarettes; Sarah with your embroidered vests and acid wit. Goodbye, Mom: with one Scots glance you could size me up to the last pound, shilling, and pence.
Goodbye, Jet: I loved you too well to have done so badly by you.
Ave, Pater: morituri te salutamus.
"We should bury the body," Dante said at last. He glanced at it, slit down the middle, the skin pulled over the sharp ends of the ribs "to avoid puncture wounds during subsequent manipulations."
Jet laid a thin hand on Dante's corpse, touching it on the hip, the groin, gently probing the edges of the slit belly. "I want to know why I'm different." Slowly he stood up, hands leaving the corpse. "I want to know why I wear this," he said, tracing the butterfly birthmark that spread over his cheek.
"So we'll ask Mom and Dad," Dante said. "Sarah can tackle Mom while you and I are burying this... thing."
"That's not enough," Jet said softly. "You can't just bury it and walk away, Dante. You're going to die if you don't find out what's going on. And then I'd never find out what happened to me."
"For Christ's sake," Dante said heatedly. "I looked, didn't I? I looked at the damn body; I dragged it down and opened it up—"
("Sort of like a fortune cookie, when you think of it," Sarah murmured.)
"—What the hell else do you want from me?"
Without answering, Jet grabbed Dante's hand and pulled it down onto the corpse's open chest. A surge of dread crackled over Dante's skin as from a prison deep inside himself a forbidden memory broke free, rank with sweat and fear.
The darkness. The heavy chopping of the fan in the next room.
A huge hand on his leg.
Dante snatched his hand away from the corpse.
"Hey! Boys! Check your testosterone at the door," Sarah said sharply.
Jet shrugged. "An angel is what you are, Dante. You'd better face up to that if you want to stay alive."
"I don't think you know what you're asking of me," Dante murmured.
The butterfly on Jet's cheek trembled. "Everything," he said.
A tiny spider's leg began to clamber up from the body's slit throat. Dante bit his lip until it bled, until the spider crawled away, until he felt the vision seep back inside himself like water soaking into the earth.
"Okay," he said.
P RAYER INDEED IS GOOD. B UT WHILE CALLING ON THE GODS A MAN SHOULD HIMSELF LEND A HAND. —H IPPOCRATES
CHAPTER
FOUR
Even by the time Dante and his siblings were sneaking his dead body out to the boathouse at their family house a mile outside the City, Laura Chen was still at work. Long after lights had winked out in the buildings around her (glass and steel monoliths by I. M. Pei, with no feeling for the rolling hills or the river—what had the man been thinking of?), Laura remained behind, pondering the tricky question of remodeling Mr. Hudson's home. He wanted a solarium, and the logic of his house suggested that it be built on the southeast corner, but according to his geomancer the year was not propitious for building in that quadrant.
Sometimes Laura stood hunched and still over the blueprints spread across her drafting table. Other times she
"What do we do with the body?" Sarah asked.
"Let's burn it," Dante said. "Burn the sac and the body both. Burn everything. Then I'll drink myself into a coma," he added. "Fabulous idea."
Sarah ignored him. "We can't toss it in the river. What if it drifts ashore? ...I suppose we could cremate you—"
"It!"
"—It, so it wouldn't be recognized." Sarah paused, frowning. "Unless you think burning it would hurt you. Give you a fever or something. Of course, we already cut it open without you fountaining blood."
At the word "blood," Dante felt his pulse with unnatural distinctness, throbbing in his neck and chest and at the base of his thumb. Goodbye, lovers: Mei's little white teeth and Tania's mound, firm as a peach beneath his hand. Goodbye, Laura my friend: thanks for the pots of green tea we drank in your tiny porcelain cups. Goodbye, Aunt Sophie, with your coins and cigarettes; Sarah with your embroidered vests and acid wit. Goodbye, Mom: with one Scots glance you could size me up to the last pound, shilling, and pence.
Goodbye, Jet: I loved you too well to have done so badly by you.
Ave, Pater: morituri te salutamus.
"We should bury the body," Dante said at last. He glanced at it, slit down the middle, the skin pulled over the sharp ends of the ribs "to avoid puncture wounds during subsequent manipulations."
Jet laid a thin hand on Dante's corpse, touching it on the hip, the groin, gently probing the edges of the slit belly. "I want to know why I'm different." Slowly he stood up, hands leaving the corpse. "I want to know why I wear this," he said, tracing the butterfly birthmark that spread over his cheek.
"So we'll ask Mom and Dad," Dante said. "Sarah can tackle Mom while you and I are burying this... thing."
"That's not enough," Jet said softly. "You can't just bury it and walk away, Dante. You're going to die if you don't find out what's going on. And then I'd never find out what happened to me."
"For Christ's sake," Dante said heatedly. "I looked, didn't I? I looked at the damn body; I dragged it down and opened it up—"
("Sort of like a fortune cookie, when you think of it," Sarah murmured.)
"—What the hell else do you want from me?"
Without answering, Jet grabbed Dante's hand and pulled it down onto the corpse's open chest. A surge of dread crackled over Dante's skin as from a prison deep inside himself a forbidden memory broke free, rank with sweat and fear.
The darkness. The heavy chopping of the fan in the next room.
A huge hand on his leg.
Dante snatched his hand away from the corpse.
"Hey! Boys! Check your testosterone at the door," Sarah said sharply.
Jet shrugged. "An angel is what you are, Dante. You'd better face up to that if you want to stay alive."
"I don't think you know what you're asking of me," Dante murmured.
The butterfly on Jet's cheek trembled. "Everything," he said.
A tiny spider's leg began to clamber up from the body's slit throat. Dante bit his lip until it bled, until the spider crawled away, until he felt the vision seep back inside himself like water soaking into the earth.
"Okay," he said.
P RAYER INDEED IS GOOD. B UT WHILE CALLING ON THE GODS A MAN SHOULD HIMSELF LEND A HAND. —H IPPOCRATES
CHAPTER
FOUR
Even by the time Dante and his siblings were sneaking his dead body out to the boathouse at their family house a mile outside the City, Laura Chen was still at work. Long after lights had winked out in the buildings around her (glass and steel monoliths by I. M. Pei, with no feeling for the rolling hills or the river—what had the man been thinking of?), Laura remained behind, pondering the tricky question of remodeling Mr. Hudson's home. He wanted a solarium, and the logic of his house suggested that it be built on the southeast corner, but according to his geomancer the year was not propitious for building in that quadrant.
Sometimes Laura stood hunched and still over the blueprints spread across her drafting table. Other times she
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