We clambered into the chamber and Karla slammed the hatch behind us. I had regained some mastery of my legs, but they still felt numb and quivery.
The Reaper bashed and bleated about the tunnel, sharing its frustration in a noisy but futile tantrum. It made no effort to follow us through the wall.
The sound and image of Sheila getting sucked down its gullet refused to fade. I couldn’t think straight with that vision haunting my brain. I wished I could have done something to help her.
“Never heard a beasty so angry,” said Bern, whose pants were tattered and bloody. ”It must have really wanted you.”
“I tell you, Bern,” said Lille. “This boy is special. Even the Reapers know it.”
“Funny, I don’t feel so special.” I said, collapsing onto Karla’s rug.
Astrid rapped her knuckles on the wall. “Are we safe here? Are we not better off in the ‘Burg?”
“I guarantee the Reaper cannot come into my house,” said Karla. She handed over the kilt and shirt I had worn my last time here, both neatly folded.
“No worries, Astrid. As I recall, Luther created this bubble,” said Bern. “Should be plenty sturdy to keep the buggers out.”
“Hah!” Karla stuck her hands on her hips. “You imply I cannot myself build a sturdy villa?”
“Not at all,” said Bern. “I’m just saying … you know Luther … everything is overkill. The things he builds … they’re like tanks. Inviolable.”
“This place is just a bare shell when I find it,” said Karla. “I make everything you see here.” She swept her hand across the interior of the dome. “And I help make it strong.”
Karla sent a glance my way and her gaze stuck. Creases formed in her brow. She sidled over and whispered. “What is wrong? Why so quiet?”
“This girl. Sheila.”
“Who?” She scrunched her eyes. “Your … girlfriend?”
“No. She was this girl … here in Root. She had the pod next to mine. That … thing … got her.”
Karla shrugged. “Happens. Too bad, so sad. It is a dirty business, this Reaping, but some souls, this is what they want, why they come here.”
“Yeah, but does it have to be so gruesome?”
“Someone likes it done this way, apparently,” said Bern. “Someone with a dark sense of humor.”
“Humor?” said Lille, attending to his wounds. “Maybe just a dark sense.”
“Someone like Luther,” said Karla.
“Pull down your trousers, Bern,” said Lille.
Bern raised an eyebrow and gave her a naughty smirk. “Here, my love?”
“Unless you want your slacks knitted to your flesh, I suggest you pull down your slacks.”
Bern looked at me. “Cheeky little thing, ain’t she?” He pulled down his pants, revealing the deep slash in his thigh. Clots had slowed the bleeding, but bloody trickles still ran down his leg.
“Little,” muttered Lille. “I’ll give you little. And don’t call me a thing, I’m your better half and you know it.” Her fingertips hovered over the wound, working in and out, meshing the edges of the wound together a millimeter at a time. Bits of dried blood flaked off and turned to lint before they hit the ground.
The intricacy and delicacy of Lille’s finger motions fascinated me. I couldn’t pull my eyes away. “It’s like … magic,” I said.
“Pish. No magic here. It’s more like mending clothes,” said Lille. “We are all string on this side of life.”
