by N. D. Wilson
“Miracle!” he snarled, and he raised both of his guns one last time.
“William, no!” Mrs. Dervish yelled.
Speck loosed his final round, and the bullet flew, tinged with black fire that only Glory saw and understood—Ghost was in the cave, and the Vulture would not escape.
The bullet punched through the outlaw’s beard and into his throat, exploding out the back of his buffalo collar in a cloud of black sand.
The Vulture’s eyes widened and he slumped onto his knees. Mrs. Dervish rushed forward, dropping down beside him, sobbing as she examined his wound.
The two generals stepped forward. The bearded man spoke first.
“Scipio the Scarred, general to the Furious Magyamitl, greets his brother, Samuel the Miracle, general to the Furious Gloria. You have thrown down our general. Honor us and take his place.”
El Buitre coughed and gargled dying rage.
Glory’s brother raised his voice.
“Alexander the Young, general to the Furious Razpocoatl, greets his brother, Samuel the Miracle, general to the Furious Gloria. You have thrown down our general. It is your right to take his place.”
While Mrs. Dervish wept, Scipio and Alexander ripped the buffalo robe off the Vulture’s back and lifted him to his feet. The arch-outlaw, destroyer of nations, gargled and wept as they dragged him to the block. His booted heels kicked against the cobblestones.
Alexander bundled the broken pearl-and-gold watch chains across the wood. With one swing of the ax, all seven chains were severed and the Vulture slumped onto his face, lifeless.
The crowd laughed and cheered and moaned with hunger.
Scipio and Alexander each grabbed an arm and lifted him up again, resting his neck in the notch, his black hair draped forward, hiding his face.
“Come and take your trophy!” Alexander shouted.
The crowd snarled, and every foot stomped. They wanted Sam to take the ax.
Glory looked at Sam. Sam’s face was pale, his eyes worried. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. She took his hand in hers and stepped up onto the motorcycle seat, raising her hourglass palm high.
Sam waited, wondering, but already knowing. When Glory spoke, her voice filled his blood with fire and joy.
“I am Glory Hallelujah. This is my general, Samuel the Miracle, who has slain the Vulture. I am a voice in the Song.” She smiled. “I am Mother Tiempo, but some will call me Death because I carry the Reaper’s scythe.” She swung her glass and a towering black blade erupted out of it, hooking just below the cavern mouth. “Yee naaldlooshii, with this blade I cut down Razpocoatl Tzitzimitl. I cut down Magyamitl Tzitzimitl. If any of you should enter my world and harm the living, I will unmake you.”
The mob grumbled and moaned, but Sam was starting the motorcycle. Only Samra’s pom-pom ponytail was visible in the sidecar.
“Alex,” Glory said, climbing on the bike behind Sam. Her brother was already staring at her. “If there’s any of you left in there, come with me. Please!”
Alex shook his head. “You’re a fool. You’ve angered them. The mothers will return.”
Glory smiled. “I love you, Alex. If you change your mind, I’ll be at the bus station a long time ago.”
Sam spun the rear tire on the stone floor, and whipped the bike around.
The groaning crowd parted.
MILLIE WAS DOING HER BEST TO SING IN THE KITCHEN, BUT the songs were deteriorating to wishes and worries and a few broken prayers she was too worried to finish.
She still had soup on the fire. But she had started another pot. With all of Levi’s men, she would need it. After hunting sea monsters in a blizzard and fighting off a monster invasion, everyone would be hungry. Everyone. Even those who had ridden off through that horrible doorway after those horrible creatures. She knew they had survived. And they would be back. She convinced herself by cooking for them.
She was making noodles when the beautiful old woman with the bright eyes and the perfectly white hair stepped out of the pantry and smiled at her back. So she didn’t see anything at all. But she felt something new, something strong, something as firm and fixed as the stars.
She felt hope. And it was certain.
Millie’s songs returned.
Upstairs, that woman with the white hair waved away layers of glass, and dismissed storms of sand until she was standing above a Navajo boy drained of spirit. Then, quietly joining her voice to the song that Millie was singing below, she cupped her hands above the boy’s chest and they filled to overflowing with what looked like water.
“Peter,” she said. “It has been a long time, and no time at all. Wake. The one who speaks time speaks of you in it. Take up the life that is yours. Walk the lonely winding roads to the deaths that are yours. Live with open hands.”
Peter sneezed suddenly. Then he yawned, stretching on the strangely crooked bed. When his eyes opened, he blinked and then smiled in surprise.
“Glory?” he asked.
By the time Peter Atsa Tiempo walked downstairs, Millie was chopping carrots and seasoning chicken. When he said her name, Millie spun around, and almost burst into tears, she was so happy to see him. He looked more alive than she remembered, stronger, brighter, like his dark eyes had seen mysteries and had laughed at them.
Even better . . . he was hungry.
And if Peter had looked out the window, beyond the tangle of leviathans feeding on strange carcasses and the Lost Boys watching them from the shore, he would have seen a motorcycle, crossing the water.
JUDE’S JOURNAL #21—CHRISTMAS 2034 A.D.
The Vulture is dead. We are alive. If that isn’t peace on earth, goodwill toward men, I don’t know what is.
For Christmas, I drew comics for everyone. I even made Samra pretty cool.
Millie made each of us our own pie. Mine was peach and I ate the whole thing for lunch.
Glory has promised us the best gift. At least everyone thought so at first. Every Lost Boy has been offered his choice of time and place. Anyone who wants to leave and go back to their own time and place can. But I don’t even remember mine, and I don’t think many of the others do, either.
We took a vote and decided to stay in Neverland for a few months. It’s nice here, even if we did have to put boards over the broken windows. Barto finally got the generators going, so we have electricity whenever we scavenge gas, but firelight and lanterns are nice once we get used to them.
Peter will be the first one to leave. There are things he needs to learn and things he needs to do and places and times where he needs to be. The more he has learned to navigate time with Glory, the quieter he has become. At night, I sometimes catch him writing notes to his older self. And he says his older self writes back. I don’t try to understand.
Sam says we can’t stay here forever, but I don’t see him in any rush to leave. Of course, I know he’s right. We all do. But we’re enjoying the peacefulness of this blown-up world for now.
I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than snow falling in smooth silver water.
Glory and Sam act like they’re going to go off and have adventures without us. They’re needed, apparently. But we’ve all made it pretty clear how we feel about that. We’ve been together this long, whenever she says it’s time to go, every last one of us will be loading up, no matter where it is she says we’re going.
The way Sam and Glory whisper now, the move is bound to be pretty soon. But I’ll hold out for spring.
I didn’t think it was possible for Cindy to get any meaner. But with just one eye now, she’s crankier than ever.
I had plans to try talking to the snakes while Sam slept. Ask them questions. Give them little yes-or-no cards to touch to answer and see what they understood. Might be a while before that can happen.
Barto made Sam a special belt where he could cinch Cindy up safe at night, but she raged so hard in it, she tore scales off. Maybe she was having her own nightmares. The next night, she broke right through it while Sam was asleep, b
ut then she just curled up with Speck on Sam’s belly, and didn’t misbehave at all. Turns out, Speck calms her. Only time you can stand close and trust her not to try anything is if they’ve got their scales touching, and she knows she’s not alone.
I can understand that. Especially with the things they’ve seen . . .
Gratitude
Claudia
Rebecca
Katherine
Sam
Glory
Heather Linn
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About the Author
Photo by Mark Lamoreaux
N. D. WILSON lives and writes in the top of a tall, skinny house only one block from where he was born. But his bestselling novels have traveled far and wide, disguising themselves in many strange languages in dozens of distant and mysterious lands. He is the author of ten novels, including Outlaws of Time: The Legend of Sam Miracle, the Ashtown Burials series, and the 100 Cupboards trilogy. He and his wife have five young storytellers of their own, along with an unreasonable number of pets.
www.ndwilson.com
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Credits
Cover art © 2017 by Forrest Dickison
Hand lettering by David Coulson
Cover design by Amy Ryan
Copyright
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE OUTLAWS OF TIME #2: THE SONG OF GLORY AND GHOST. Text copyright © 2017 by N. D. Wilson. Illustration copyright ©2017 by Forrest Dickison. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2016957989
ISBN 978-0-06-232729-1
EPub Edition © March 2017 ISBN 9780062327314
17 18 19 20 21 CG/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
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