City of the Snakes by Darren Shan

Author:Darren Shan [Shan, Darren]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: General, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Fiction, Magic Realism (Literature), Gangsters, Noir Fiction, Urban Life, Cardinals
ISBN: 9780446573474
Publisher: Hachette Digital, Inc.
Published: 2011-06-02T05:00:00+00:00

conversations with the dead

Wednesday, just after midnight, my apartment. Ama’s in the kitchen, making sandwiches. I told her I could do it, but my legs are still weak and she insisted I sit and rest.

It was Monday when I encountered my father in the Manco Capac statue. When I came to, found the chef and asked the time, he told me it was afternoon. Which it was—but Tuesday, not Monday. I was out of commission an entire day.

Ama and I didn’t talk much during our climb. We emerged behind a garbage dump, where my motorcycle and Ama’s scooter were waiting. I asked Ama how they got there but she didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure how she knew the way up—she claimed to be navigating by instinct.

She slides in from the kitchen, tray of sandwiches in one hand, bag of cookies in the other. “These are stale,” she says, “but they’ll be OK if you dunk them.”

“There’s a twenty-four-hour store on the next block. I could—”

“Don’t bother. These will be fine.”

I sip the coffee she brewed earlier and chew on the sandwiches. Ama nibbles at a cookie but doesn’t touch her drink. Her eyes are serious and dark.

“Do you remember the statue?” I ask delicately.

She nods. “The priests made me lure you there, then offer myself as a sacrifice. I had no control over what I was doing. Sometimes when they bring me back, I’m a zombie and they can…” She trails off into silence and frowns. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes. I met my… Paucar Wami down there.” No point telling her he’s my father if she doesn’t know. “He explained how the villacs bring him back from the dead and force him to do their bidding.”

“It sounds crazy said like that,” she smiles. “I was hysterical the first few times. Now I pretend I’m like anybody else, and when they tell me I have to die, I act like it’s no big deal, just falling asleep.”

“How many times…?” I wince. I’ve a splitting headache.

“You need rest,” Ama says. “We can talk about this in the morning.”

“I’d rather—”

“Morning,” she says firmly.

“Yes, nurse,” I grin, then get to my feet and hobble to bed, aided by Ama. I sit on the edge, breathing deeply, eyes shut against the pain.

“Who are the pair in the photo?” Ama asks, referring to the shot of Bill and a young Priscilla Perdue that hangs over my bed.

“Old friends,” I sigh without opening my eyes.

A pause as she takes in the rest of the room. “There’s a finger on your dressing table.”

“I know.”

Ama slips off my shoes and helps me out of my T-shirt. Her breath catches when she sees the scars on my chest and back—most from the explosion a decade ago—but she doesn’t ask about them. Her hands are on the buttons of my jeans when I stop her. “I’m not wearing shorts.”

“I doubt you’ve anything I haven’t seen before,” she says, but turns her back while I wriggle out of the jeans and slide beneath the covers.

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