I don’t know how lucky I am if my first Marked is a baby. I had been expecting a Dread Titan, something so terrible that it would split the Earth open with sheer magic alone when I faced it down. Not a child barely able to keep its own head upright. Not a child I had to wrap in blankets because he’d started shivering and sneezing and going blue in his lips. And not a child who kept me up the entire night as I tried to put the annoying little thing to sleep to no avail, not until the sun slowly rose above the horizon and began heating the air again. I was drooling on my own shirt by the time he woke up again, grabbing onto my hair and wriggling around, trying to free himself from the heat. I really hate babies. Now he’s sitting on the workbench facing me, and I can hardly keep my eyes open, too.

  “What the fuck am I meant to do with you?” I whisper. He’s got my pinky in a grip, and I’ve got to use my other hand to make sure he doesn’t topple over. “I don’t know anything about babies. Do you even need to eat?”

  “Angels mostly eat for show,” Mortimer mutters, who also hasn’t slept, which is funny, you know, since he’s a manifestation of magical dirt or whatever, but he’s grumpy for someone who doesn’t need it. “But their kids need a stew of Angel milk and a trickle of Holy Magic from both of their parents to make sure they develop right.”

  “I’ve got neither Angel milk nor two parents that can help him out,” I mumble. “So that’s a dud.”

  He looks at me, head on his paws. “How’d your mom take care of you? Just do that.”

  “My older sisters took care of me,” I tell him. “And, you know, I kinda can’t remember.”

  “Humans and their faulty memory.”

  “Cats and their tendency to taste like chicken when they’re cooked.”

  “I don’t like how you keep wanting to eat me alive, kid.”

  “Wouldn’t be my first cat stew,” I mutter.

  He doesn’t reply, only scoffs.

  The little Angel coos at me, grasping with his free hand for my hair. He’s chubby and pink in the cheeks, so healthy that I’m kinda jealous. Angel Blood goes for ridiculous amounts per milliliter, since nobody ever gets the chance to get more than a droplet. I can make myself disgustingly rich with this kid, but I won’t, because that’s wrong or whatever and I guess I need to get rid of this baby somehow without dumping it in a six foot hole, too.

  I hate myself for doing this, but I guess I can’t leave the little thing out in the Barrens alone. I’ll dump him with the first people I see, maybe get a few bucks out of this, too. Enough to get me home without it being a pain.

  What, you expected prim and proper morals from someone who gets paid to kill for a living? If you want a hero, pay me, and I’ll be just that, or go look for Astrid, because I’m more than sure she’d cradle this baby and make sure that not a single thing in this world ever touches it. I groan and stand up, because now I have to figure out how to make some kind of harness to hold the baby. I pick him up, arm’s length away from me, and frown. How the hell do I even start? I guess he’s not that different from a sword. I can make bindings for that; how hard is it for a baby?

  It turns out, after nearly an hour, that he’s very much not like a sword. He’s a fussy little crybaby who keeps fighting me every step of the way. I swear, the nerve of this kid. Just stay still and keep your arms where I want them to and you won’t have to be in this blistering heat all day long, either. But here he goes again, crying his lungs out when I try to fit him inside the harness I’ve made on my chest, flailing his arms and legs like I’m just the most foul thing he’s ever seen, and you know what, dear diary? I want to toss the kid into a junk pile and be on my merry way.

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  But if it’s one thing I don’t like doing, it’s failing—and this right here is a challenge.

  And I’m not losing to a freaking baby.

  Gods, this is ridiculous.

  “You know,” Mortimer says, “you can always just…you know.”

  I look at him. He’s found a spot near the skeleton to avoid most of the sunlight. “I’m not killing a baby.”

  “Just a second ago you nearly killed me because I wasn’t willing to help you get rid of him.”

  “That’s the thing, I’d kill you just because, Mortimer,” I mutter. “The difference is that this is just a baby, and I can also get a lot of money giving this baby to a church or something, and with that money, I get to go home.”

  “Does that count as trafficking?”

  “I’ve done worse.”

  “I’m really starting to think someone made a clerical error choosing you for this Blessing.”

  “Bite me,” I say, “and come help me make a baby harness.”

  He sighs and plods toward me, leaps onto the table, and says, “You’re doing it all wrong. You need to have it go across your back for extra support or else the little guy is gonna slip out of it, yeah, just like that. Next, you need to get his back supported…right, no, the other way—yep, and make sure that knot is tight, unless you want him to hit the tarmac.” He tilts his head. “It’s not great, but it’ll hold. I mean, I taught the Sacred Maidens how to—”

  I sling my backpack over my shoulders and say, “Stop reminiscing and let’s get going.”

  He grumbles under his breath and takes his chance to pounce onto my shoulder. The little Angel takes an immediate interest in Mortimer, shutting up when the cat sways his tail on his nose and makes him giggle with the kind of glee he’s not shown me ever since I got him out of the rotting Fallen Angel’s grip. I sigh and look around one last time, trying to see anything else I want to grab. The Droid would be cool to have back at my place, but it’s several pounds of solid metal—I’m not lugging that through the Barrens. A long day would just turn out even longer if I bother. It’s a shame, though. I’m not a history buff, but he was a warrior, you know. He had been someone and meant something to people, and here he is, rusting away into bits of broken metal, hanging from a meat hook.

  His story ended a long, long time before I ever got the chance to live. Gods, the stories this old hunk of junk could tell. All these scrapes and scratches and the glints of silver metal underneath his dust-brown paint. Once upon a time, he’d rolled off the assembly line, brand new, ready for war, carrying a submachine gun and the liberties of New America to uphold to the creatures that were spilling into our world. Someone had stamped their approval on him and watched as he marched toward the front, knowing he’d do his job until he physically couldn’t anymore.

  And all it amounted to, all that sacrifice, all that hard work, was a lonely, decrepit death in some junkyard in the middle of nowhere, left to rot right amongst the body parts of his brethren because the world had moved on.

  The world stopped caring after they’d gotten their use out of him.

  No, actually. I don’t think I can leave him here, because this just isn’t a way for a knight to die.

  I’ve not got many friends, but when I do kick it, I’d want them to care at least a little, too.

  So I grab the stool and use it to get closer to the Droid’s head. There should be some kind of port or something around the base of his neck. My older brother used to short Droid chips back in the day so he could buy us all ice cream. This, though, is a way older model. Way before anyone’s time. But with enough searching, I find a slit in his metal plating, and fidget and pull and get it open when it snaps because of the rust. I’m already sweating from the effort alone, and from the weight of carrying a cat, a baby, and a backpack full of stuff, but let me just have this one thing for myself, because there it is—his chip. His memories, his life. Everything. I take it out slowly and hold it between my fingers. It’s old and dusty, and I’m not an expert on anything mechanical, so I don’t know if it’s a bust or not. It doesn’t hurt to try. Maybe I can get his war stories on film or something, or pawn it off after I empty the chip onto a flashdrive or whatever. His body is the keeper, though. One day, I think, climbing down off the stool.

  I’ll get him a body as awesome as the one he had when he was alive and kicking, wings and all.

  For now, though, I had my own little pair of wings to deal with.

  So I left the old Droid there facing the skeleton, a promise written on his dust-covered body.

  Property of K. Summers. Just stepped out. Gonna be back. Don’t touch my stuff.

  Time for another amazing day trying not to die alone.