The woman, Eve’s mother, was falling slowly, slowly to her knees, her protests silenced in the ugliest possible way.

Eve’s face was covered with blood that was not her own, and her eyes danced with madness that was equal parts incomprehension and dreadful awareness.

Brother Andrew began to turn toward her.

But the archer.

The archer . . .

. . . was falling.

Danny looked at Chong with a challenging perplexity. His eyes met Chong’s, then drifted down to the arrow he had just fired.

The arrow that stood out straight and immutable from Chong’s torso. Chong looked down to see the feathered end of the arrow standing straight out from his stomach. He craned his neck and looked over his shoulder. The barbed tip of the arrow stuck out red and glistening behind him.

“Oh,” said Chong.

The archer opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words, blood poured from between his lips. His skull looked wrong to Chong. Misshapen. Dented. Chong looked down at the broken wooden sword. The top half of the sword lay on the ground between him and the archer, shattered by the force of the blow he had just delivered.

“Oh,” he said again.

With a wet gurgle, the archer dropped to his knees, then fell sideways, making no effort at all to catch his fall.

Brother Andrew turned away from the woman he had just murdered, and his grinning face went slack with shock.

“Danny . . .?” he asked uncertainly.

Danny—the archer—was beyond answering.

Chong felt his legs beginning to tremble.

I’m shot, he thought.

The handle of the bokken tumbled from his rubbery fingers.

I’m in shock.

There was no pain. There was . . . nothing.

I’m dead.

And . . .

Well . . . that’s what town boys get for trying to be heroes.

Brother Andrew took a step forward as he swung the scythe around to point at Chong. “You little piece of scum. Do you know what you’ve done?”

Chong wanted to explain. At the very least he wanted to ask why this man, this reaper, would be angry at the death of the archer. Clearly they were dedicated to death itself. It did not make sense that he would be angry at an incident that was part of his own beliefs. That was the thread of logic that was sewn through Chong’s mind, and he wanted to discuss this philosophical point with Brother Andrew.

Chong found enough of his voice to croak out two words: “I’m sorry.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and he really did not mean to give that apology to the reaper. He wanted Eve to hear it. Because her parents both lay dead on the sandy ground; but more so because Chong knew that he was not going to be able to save the little girl from this big brute.