Free Sacrifice the Wicked by Karina Cooper Page A

the already abused fabric. “They all know . . . the missionaries, they . . . the new ones. They’re not like—Agh!” Power shuddered against Simon’s skin.
    Fluctuated, just like the remaining dregs of Fisher’s life.
    Simon stared down at him, at the ruined shell of what had once been a man just like him. Jonathan’s flesh mottled, moving as if fingers tried to work themselves out. Worms of motions, writhing. Twisting.
    His mouth gaped as he choked, teeth bloody.
    “I know,” Simon said quietly, answer to the unspoken threat. He smiled ruefully. “Everything’s going to be okay. I won’t be that far behind you.”
    “Wells—”
    Simon caught his free hand, held it as the man struggled.
    “Listen to me,” he gasped, pulling on his shirt. “It’s . . . it’s different. Changed. No one’s working alone.” He spoke quickly, every word forced through mucus and blood. “Watch . . . your back, man. Something’s not . . . It’s all sideways.”
    Simon unholstered his gun, the one he didn’t bother leaving behind when Parker suspended him. Jonathan’s eyes flared, and Simon’s gut twisted in shared horror and sympathy as he realized the whites were stained pink. A film of blood.
    Degeneration wasn’t nearly strong enough a description for this hell.
    “I’ll be careful,” he promised and pressed the muzzle to the missionary’s forehead. “Ready?”
    “ Do it. ”
    His heart slowed. Evened. “Go with God.”
    Red tears leaked from the corner of Jonathan’s eyes, even as he croaked a bitter laugh.
    God had nothing to do with this.
    As the gunshot cracked like thunder in the small alley, ricocheted from wall to wall and filled the near silence with echoes, Jonathan Fisher’s laughter stopped. Blood and gray matter splattered the pavement. He jerked once, a full-body shudder, and Simon flinched as the man’s power erupted on a wave of red and pink; like a sonic boom.
    Harmless, if uncomfortable. It blew through him, formless as the wind, and faded before Simon could do more than brace himself. It left the filthy alley, left the world for all Simon knew. Left him, bloody and raw with emotions he couldn’t stop to give voice to, bent over the corpse of a man whose end would mirror his own.
    He closed his eyes, holstered his weapon without needing to look, and took a deep, blood-saturated breath of rotten air and humid temperatures.
    All the Salem witches knew what was coming. They all carried the same memories, the same so-called childhood. The cells, the needles, the drugs. None of it had ever brought them anything but a short life and a single opportunity to make it worthwhile.
    Killers and spies for Sector Three might have been enough for some. It wasn’t for Fisher.
    And it wasn’t for Simon.
    Matilda Lauderdale had wanted something else for him. Something she’d refused to say, even when he’d stood over her dying body, demanding answers.
    Now more than ever, he had to find out what. Before it was too late for him, too.
    With steady fingers, Simon unclipped his comm, flicked open the screen. A few keystrokes put a check by Fisher’s name.
    Done.
    By habit, he scrolled through the list one more time, double-checking every entry. As it came to the end, he stilled.
    The list had expanded by one.
    P. Adams.
    “Motherfucker.”
    The whole game had changed.
    T estament Park wasn’t the only park in all of New Seattle. It remained the only one cultivated by the city, however—marked by a large, memorial fountain commemorating the rebirth of a city torn apart by Armageddon, placed squarely at the front gate so all the passing cars could marvel.
    Or, as the case typically was, ignore it. Even Parker had stopped seeing the swatch of green as she passed it every day for work.
    Only one kind of plant really did well in the mostly cloudy environment. Tough evergreens, scrublike bushes, anything that thrived in lots of rain and no real sun. The civic sector—the governing offices that took