“Back at the dome. The last place it should be. I burned up a whole magazine on that flock. I’m empty. Out of rounds. And covered in blood and guts like we are, who knows what kind of predator we’ll attract. Which is why we need to beat feet back to the barn before one of those flying freaks gets the bright idea to come back and finish what they were starting.”

“On Donovan,” Dek quoted, “a full magazine trumps all the mystical teachings in the universe.”

“Been hanging around Shig, huh?” She stomped a bleating mobber dead with a hard heel, led the way to the north edge of the outcrop, parted the still-agitated leaves, and started down the steep slope.

“I don’t want to live like this. It’s reliving hell.”

“I don’t know what your version of hell is.”

“That rage you shook me out of? I was strangling my father with my bare hands.”

“Must be fun to be at your house for family time at Christmas.”

“We don’t celebrate Christmas. Holidays are for lesser beings who are in need of occasional relief from the drudgery of their normal lives.” He felt a sense of relief to be back in the forest, away from the ruination of blasted wings, guts, and blown-apart bodies.

“If that’s how your dad feels, I’ll strangle him for you.”

“Trade you my Christmas for yours,” he told her as he ducked a vine and willed his feet to find the same purchase she’d used to descend the squirming roots onto the dim root mat at the bottom of the slope. As he did, he let the memory come. “I can smell it. See the steam rising off that pot on the stove. The one with the dent. There are big red tiles on the floor, and the table is a ponderous wooden thing. You are putting some kind of stoneware plates on the—”

“Hey.” She turned, an angry frown marring the smooth lines of her forehead. “You have that? In your head? In that kind of detail?”

“Yeah. But this time the bowl isn’t there. I see your mother. A tall woman, thin, her hair in a ponytail that hangs down her back. She’s wearing a white cotton dress with a floral pattern. Stops at her knees. Muscular brown calves. She’s wearing sandals. And her smile. . . . I like that about her. How she—”

“Stop.” Talina started off again, moving fast, the set of her shoulders reflecting her irritation. “How much more of me is inside that head of yours?”

“Makes me jealous.”

“What? Sharing my memories?”

“No. That your mother loved you like that.”

41