world went out like the snuff of a candle's flame beneath the rain.
I woke at Ruthie's place. I wasn't surprised. Not only did I go there when I needed help, but Ruthie often welcomed those who'd died too soon to her own little purgatory. This meant that Ruthie's house was usually filled with children, just as it had been on earth.
Ruthie had run a group home on the south side of Milwaukee. When she'd first opened her doors to stray kids and the occasional dog, Ruthie had been the only African American within thirty miles. She hadn't cared. Amazingly, no one else had, either.
I went through the gate in the white picket fence, strolled up the pristine sidewalk to the green-trimmed white house, and knocked. The music of children's laughter, the trill of their happy voices, rang from inside. The door opened, and there she was—the only mother I'd ever known.
She looked exactly the same as the day she'd died— minus the blood splatter, torn throat, and various bite marks.
"Lizbeth," Ruthie said, and gathered me into her arms.
Despite the knobbiness of her elbows and knees, the boniness of her entire body, Ruthie gave the very best hugs.
She'd taken me in when I was twelve, fresh from another foster home that didn't want me. She'd seemed ancient even then—her lined face the shade of rich coffee, her dark eyes so sharp she saw everything about you, even things you'd spent a lifetime learning to hide.
None of that mattered to Ruthie—where you'd been, what you'd done, who you were. Once she took you in, she never let you go. For throwaway kids, that promise was worth more than money, it was worth our very souls. To be accepted, to know that no matter what happened, Ruthie would love you ...
We'd have done anything for her.
I was still having a bit of a problem accepting that Ruthie had purposely gone searching for kids who were "special," taking them in and preparing them to become part of the federation. I knew she hadn't had any choice—we were talking about the end of the world—still, it would have been nice to be chosen for myself and not my psychic abilities.
However, since my psychic abilities were what had, more often than not, gotten me tossed from every foster home I'd been in, being chosen for them instead of despite them wasn't the worst thing.
I drew back, and Ruthie let me go. She touched my cheek and worry shadowed her eyes.
"I'm dead, aren't I?"
She sighed and turned away, leaving the door open as an invitation to follow. I trailed after her, down the hall and into the sunshine-bright kitchen, where the large back windows allowed her to watch over the children in the yard.
I counted four. The small number, and lack of a baby carriage, lightened my spirits. The last time I'd been here the place had been bursting with kids I'd failed to save, as well as a tiny bundle that wouldn't stop crying.
That was a memory I'd do just about anything to erase from my brain.
"Sit," Ruthie ordered. "We've got a situation here."
"Me being dead is going to throw a bit of a crimp in our plans. This is gonna start the Doomsday clock ticking all over again."
"You aren't dead," she said.
"The woman of smoke—" I paused, then sat. "You know about her?"
Ruthie gave me one of her patented stares. Ruthie knew about everything, even before she'd become ...
I wasn't certain what she'd become, but she was definitely more powerful dead than alive. Having her killed had been the Strega's first mistake.
"She stabbed me with my own knife." I made a sound of disgust. How lame was that? "Twice in the chest."
I glanced down, thrilled to discover that the weapon wasn't sticking out of me so that I resembled a shish kebab. My broken wrist appeared to work just fine, as well. I flapped it a few times just to be sure.
Of course no one came here with the wounds they'd died from; that would be too upsetting to the kids, not to mention gross.
"You aren't dead," Ruthie repeated.
"But—"
"Twice in the same way kills a
I woke at Ruthie's place. I wasn't surprised. Not only did I go there when I needed help, but Ruthie often welcomed those who'd died too soon to her own little purgatory. This meant that Ruthie's house was usually filled with children, just as it had been on earth.
Ruthie had run a group home on the south side of Milwaukee. When she'd first opened her doors to stray kids and the occasional dog, Ruthie had been the only African American within thirty miles. She hadn't cared. Amazingly, no one else had, either.
I went through the gate in the white picket fence, strolled up the pristine sidewalk to the green-trimmed white house, and knocked. The music of children's laughter, the trill of their happy voices, rang from inside. The door opened, and there she was—the only mother I'd ever known.
She looked exactly the same as the day she'd died— minus the blood splatter, torn throat, and various bite marks.
"Lizbeth," Ruthie said, and gathered me into her arms.
Despite the knobbiness of her elbows and knees, the boniness of her entire body, Ruthie gave the very best hugs.
She'd taken me in when I was twelve, fresh from another foster home that didn't want me. She'd seemed ancient even then—her lined face the shade of rich coffee, her dark eyes so sharp she saw everything about you, even things you'd spent a lifetime learning to hide.
None of that mattered to Ruthie—where you'd been, what you'd done, who you were. Once she took you in, she never let you go. For throwaway kids, that promise was worth more than money, it was worth our very souls. To be accepted, to know that no matter what happened, Ruthie would love you ...
We'd have done anything for her.
I was still having a bit of a problem accepting that Ruthie had purposely gone searching for kids who were "special," taking them in and preparing them to become part of the federation. I knew she hadn't had any choice—we were talking about the end of the world—still, it would have been nice to be chosen for myself and not my psychic abilities.
However, since my psychic abilities were what had, more often than not, gotten me tossed from every foster home I'd been in, being chosen for them instead of despite them wasn't the worst thing.
I drew back, and Ruthie let me go. She touched my cheek and worry shadowed her eyes.
"I'm dead, aren't I?"
She sighed and turned away, leaving the door open as an invitation to follow. I trailed after her, down the hall and into the sunshine-bright kitchen, where the large back windows allowed her to watch over the children in the yard.
I counted four. The small number, and lack of a baby carriage, lightened my spirits. The last time I'd been here the place had been bursting with kids I'd failed to save, as well as a tiny bundle that wouldn't stop crying.
That was a memory I'd do just about anything to erase from my brain.
"Sit," Ruthie ordered. "We've got a situation here."
"Me being dead is going to throw a bit of a crimp in our plans. This is gonna start the Doomsday clock ticking all over again."
"You aren't dead," she said.
"The woman of smoke—" I paused, then sat. "You know about her?"
Ruthie gave me one of her patented stares. Ruthie knew about everything, even before she'd become ...
I wasn't certain what she'd become, but she was definitely more powerful dead than alive. Having her killed had been the Strega's first mistake.
"She stabbed me with my own knife." I made a sound of disgust. How lame was that? "Twice in the chest."
I glanced down, thrilled to discover that the weapon wasn't sticking out of me so that I resembled a shish kebab. My broken wrist appeared to work just fine, as well. I flapped it a few times just to be sure.
Of course no one came here with the wounds they'd died from; that would be too upsetting to the kids, not to mention gross.
"You aren't dead," Ruthie repeated.
"But—"
"Twice in the same way kills a
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