Brother Diaz cleared his throat. He never used to need to clear his throat, but lately he was having to do it before every sentence. “I wouldn’t presume to challenge the breadth of your experience—” “Then we’ll get along famously!” said Baptiste. “—but you don’t seem to have explained what, specifically, became of my predecessor.” Jakob turned his grey eyes back to Brother Diaz, as if only now remembering he was there. “She’s dead.” And he started to limp back the way they’d come. “Dead?” whispered Brother Diaz. “As fuck.” Baptiste gave his shoulders a parting squeeze. “She’s dead as fuck.”
