The reapers faded back, clustering into a tight crowd as the bonfires tipped over and defenders emerged. One bonfire spilled right behind Saint John, causing him to dance out of the way, and the false Nyx with the red hair rose up.
The tableau held. Sixteen thousand reapers clustered together in one mass. Three hundred defenders with torches standing in the gap betwe
en them and the raging inferno. And the boy on the tower looking down at them.
“Kill them,” snarled Saint John. “They are nothing.”
The reapers, led by some of the Red Brothers, inched forward.
• • •
“Stop!” shouted Benny, his voice amplified by the bullhorn so that it rose even above the roar of the fire.
Everyone froze. Even Saint John and his reapers.
“You can’t get out of here without burning,” said Benny. He coughed, then pressed a wet rag to his nose and mouth for a moment. When he trusted his voice, he said, “I’m giving you one last chance. Put down your weapons and remove those angel wings.”
“Or what?” demanded Saint John from below. “You’re running out of tricks, boy. My reapers will tear you down from that tower.”
“No, they won’t,” said Benny.
“My reapers would die to serve our god.”
“Maybe,” said Benny. “But would they burn for it?”
The reapers milled, confused by this. The fires in the field were still burning, but they weren’t getting any closer. They could all see that.
Saint John shook his head and waved an arm toward the tower. “Hollow words from a blasphemous fool. My brothers . . . tear that tower down.”
Before they could take five steps, Benny said, “You all know the ranger, Captain Ledger?”
The name sent a buzz of fearful conversation through the crowd; some even looked around to see if the man was somehow here.
“We were talking about this fight. About what might happen if I had to try and stop your whole army. He asked me if I was willing to become a monster in order to stop you. He said that if I could look inside my own head and see a line that I won’t cross, then you’d win. Saint John would win. We all know how far he’d go to have his way. You’re proof of that. Is there anyone down there who hasn’t seen friends or family die because of Saint John? Well . . . today I took that look inside and, no, there isn’t a line I won’t cross. I’ll do anything—any horrible, insane thing—to stop him from killing the whole world. I’ll even kill myself, the girl I love, my best friends, and my town.”
Benny bent and picked up a torch and held it out over the edge of the tower.
“Everything in this town has been soaked with oil, with kerosene, with cooking oils, with lighter fluid. We used every drop of everything flammable we could find and all that we could transport here. It’s in the dirt, it’s in every house, it’s on the plants and shrubs. If I drop this torch, you’ll all burn. We’ll all burn. Every single one of us.” Benny felt his mouth curl into an ugly smile of raw hate.
“You wouldn’t dare,” said Saint John, but for a man of great faith there was a terrible doubt in his voice.
Benny looked down at him, and his hate gave way to a strange kind of pity.
“What choice do I have?” he asked. “You forced me into this. What else can I do?”
The moment held and held as the world around the town burned. All of Mountainside could have been an island in hell.
There was a sound behind the saint.
A dull thud.
He turned and saw a sword lying on the ground.
It lay at the feet of one of the Red Brothers. The man said, “I’m sorry.” Then he hooked his fingers into the collar of his shirt and tore away the front, ripping through the embroidered angel wings. “I don’t want to burn.”
Another weapon fell. An ax.
A woman looked down at the bloody knife clutched in her hand. “Oh God,” she said, and as the sob broke in her chest, she let the blade tumble to the dirt.