By Meaghan E. Ward I lean harder against the apartment wall and press a mask to a little girl’s face. Outside, ash rains on the desolate streets of Mid-level, Sector 4. The staticky hiss of the blast cannon’s recharge and the click of heavy boots echo from everywhere and nowhere. “Did I not warn you?”
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The king is dead.
I slump in my best dress on the pew at the back of the cathedral while the funeral bells toll overhead. Outside the church, villagers scream in protest at the leaving nobility, whose emotions stream behind them in trails of color. Amber irritation. Pale boredom. Sour, brown fear.
How in Hades could a three-headed dog escape the Underworld, cross the river Styx, and enter the world of the living without me immediately hearing about it? But Cerberus has managed it somehow. So here I am, calling his name like an idiot in the middle of New York City at what must be the busiest time of the year.
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