Inked

muttered—and knocked her aside. I opened the door, saw a pale gaunt face, and in seconds dragged the kid inside—with the door shut and locked behind him. Cutting off, as I did, a rolling barrage of shouts that continued to rise through the floor in muted waves.
    Ernie was dressed in limp pajamas, his chest bare. Ribs jutted, and his collarbone was so pronounced it could have doubled as a hanger. Sweat trickled down his skin. He stood, blinking at me with huge terrified eyes—as disconcerting as the violent tremors shaking his body. He snatched at his wrist, and then hugged himself convulsively, gulping down the beginnings of a tremendous, wracking sob.
    I knelt, keenly aware of Jean standing in the shadows behind him. He had not yet seen her. I placed my hands lightly on his bony shoulders, and he surprised me by throwing his arms around my neck.
    “I ran,” he whispered.
    I looked over his shoulder at Jean, who was tight-lipped, pale. She pointed at the floor, and mouthed, “His home.”
    I closed my eyes, and drew him closer. He smelled like mildew and sweat. “You did the right thing.”
    “ Mutter told me.” Ernie drew in a wheezing breath and began coughing. Below, the soldiers screamed in Japanese, and the answering replies in German were broken with sobs. The boy instantly slapped his hand over his mouth, cutting off both a cough and gasp, and took a broken step back to the door.
    Or tried to. I refused to let go, and stood—sweeping the boy into my arms, carrying him to the couch. He weighed nothing for a kid his age. Just bone, gangly limbs, and clammy skin. He tried to protest. I ignored him, and sat down with him in my lap.
    “Cover your ears if you need to,” I whispered harshly, looking across the room at Jean. “But you’re not going anywhere until those soldiers are gone.”
    He did not cover his ears, but instead buried his face against my throat, holding on with all his strength. I could feel his heart pounding. Mine, too. I remembered the feel of his old-man blood on my hands, the rattle of his last breath. His eyes, searching mine, for that one last time.
    Behind Ernie, well out of his sight, Zee and the boys uncoiled from the shadows like deadly blooming roses, unfurling claws and wild razor hair. But their gazes were soft as they stared at the boy. As were the gazes of their counterparts, clinging close to Jean. I met her gaze and held it. Wishing I could read her mind.
    She stood rigid, pale. Below, wood cracked. More shouts. A muffled scream. Ernie flinched. So did my grandmother. I was past that. What I was feeling did not allow room for flinches. Just violence.
    But it finally got quiet. Boots tramped on the stairs outside, and then faded.
    Ernie stirred, and when he did, demons scattered silently into the shadows. Jean had nowhere to go, and I watched something shift in her eyes—resolve, maybe. She moved from the darkened doorway. Standing in plain sight.
    She nodded at me, and I let Ernie sit up. He rubbed his eyes—turned his head, just so—and froze.
    Jean did not move. She stood with her feet braced, hands loose at her sides—as though ready for a blow. Ernie was so still in my arms. And then, slowly, he tore his gaze from her to look at me.
    I raised my brow. “Surprise.”
    He sucked in a deep breath and scrambled off my lap, nearly falling in his rush to get away. I did not reach for him, or move. Neither did Jean, but her gaze found mine for one brief moment. Tired, angry. Resolved.
    “Ernie,” she said gently. “Meet my sister.”
    “Sister,” he whispered, backing up until he hit the wall. “You said you had no family.”
    “I had to. Maxine was doing…sensitive work.”
    “Still am,” I told the boy. “That was me you helped earlier.”
    Jean gave me a sharp look. Ernie still seemed startled, but his shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. He mumbled, “Thought there was something different. In your eyes.”
    “You can’t tell anyone,” Jean said. “Not Samuel or Lizbet. Not even Winifred.”
    Ernie flashed her a defiant look. “You said you trusted us.”
    “Not a matter of trust.” I pushed myself to the edge of the couch and leaned forward. “Safety. Anyone who knows about my presence would be at risk. Bad enough that I’m here at all.”
    Ernie was a brave kid. He held my gaze with the same unwavering intensity that I would see more than sixty years from now. “Someone looking for you?”
    “Not yet.” Jean stepped close. “But