right; the real villain still lay far beyond Charlie's revenge. Charlie couldn't quite bring himself to end Xanthus' suffering with a quick dagger thrust—the risk of dismounting now from Silver's back might be never getting into the saddle again—but he couldn't hate Xanthus quite so deeply, either. He, at least, would pay for his crimes.
Too goddamn bad it wasn't Carreras lying there with his legs crushed. . . .
Charlie turned his back and left his "master" screaming for help. He had to find Sibyl and his daughter. If they were still alive.
Sibyl rocked Charlie's little girl in the cramped space of their prison, murmuring softly to her until hysterical sobs quieted. Chubby little fingers clutched at her neck, her hair. Soft arms and a trembling little body pressed close in the darkness.
"Shh . . . Shh . . . It's all right, Lucania, it's all right, shh, it's all right . . ."
Maybe if I say it often enough, it'll be true.
"Mama?"
"Shh, no, your mama isn't here, Lucania. Shh . . ."
How to explain to a toddler who could scarcely speak that her mother had just died?
Very faintly, Sibyl heard voices. She tried to hear above the noise from Vesuvius. "Hello!" she called, as loudly as she could. "HELP!" She tried pushing at the rubble and felt more than heard the ominous shift of weight. "HELP US!"
So faint, the voice