The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  In her presence, some of his stress floated away. How would he function without it, though? The question brought on new stress.

  “You should come to bed. I miss you.”

  I miss you too. I am lost without you.

  Her movement was much more graceful than usual. She was suddenly sitting astride his lap as if her leg wasn’t as much of a hindrance anymore.

  It had been a while since he had an opportunity to love her this closely.

  “Does this mean you don’t hate me? So you’re the one.”

  “I hope so.” She nipped him on the lips, and looked about to go in for a longer, slower savor. But she paused, just shy. She licked her lips and then rubbed a thumb over his wound. “Why? What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Nothing. It was self-inflicted.” More or less. “It’s. . .” he began as he squirmed beneath her gaze.

  He was so tired of lying. But he couldn’t bear the thought of telling the truth. Couldn’t they just be for now? For what could be his last night alive?

  And she seemed to sense this. Or she wanted something from him besides conflict.

  He didn’t deserve the reprieve, but still, he acquired that second kiss. It wasn’t something he could discern from the third or the fourth. It became constant, deep, and transcending.

  His hands slid up her thighs. Beneath her nightshirt. He discovered it was all she was wearing.

  She helped him. He helped her.

  The shirt was over her head in no time. Those full, round breasts were his for the cherishing. And he was about to partake when the door downstairs grinded open and latched shut.

  There were only so many certainties in life. In that regard, Law’s timing seemed to rival his newfound animosity.

  Herald and Virtue didn’t say the words, but there was no question, they shared a similar thought. He could tell by the way their quiet smiles met. They also had the resolve to carry on in that fashion—without a sound.

  With her dainty hands, she worked on his belt buckle. It let off a slight jangle once it came loose. He went for the button of his pants. The pop was barely audible. The zipper took care of itself. It wasn’t silent, but close enough.

  The swell in his lap was liberated and free to stand tall. He had to bite back the groan when she engulfed him in the comparative heat. She absorbed what little escaped him with her kiss.

  She moved down the full length of him ever so slowly. The chair resisted with a tiny creak, but it was a brilliant alternative to the bed. It also gave Virtue a chance to be on top and take control.

  He had to admit, he was thrilled he lived to experience her chance to do. Why would anyone want to have her any other way? Pain was easy to inflict. But this? He could be there for one woman, and bring her up with mutual love, affection, and physical attraction. What more could he ask for?

  More time. . .

  When she came for him, it was pure, natural, and beautiful. It pushed him to a silence that was a torment to maintain as well.

  It was perfect . . . once in a lifetime. And in that, he found his focus.

  He had to go. His peers could call him naïve, reckless, irrational. . .

  He had heard it all.

  But they didn’t understand. How could they? Perhaps good people would know love even if they’d never experienced it. There are different kinds, though, and what he felt for Virtue was incomparable. He was certain.

  What was it like seeing her, thinking about her, worrying about her in the hands of that monster? Then, what he did, and what he intended.

  It will never happen again.

  Being apart from her, and then watching her suffer, it was like dying inside. This was no exaggeration. There was no better way to describe it. The shock, fury, and agony didn’t simply stay in mind. They had physical ramifications. His heart was in danger of exploding. Bernie had said so herself.

  Unless they felt that, who were they to judge?

  After putting Virtue to bed, he held her and watched her sleep for a short while. It seemed like a better use of his time than staring at a blank piece of paper.

  Time went painfully slow, but also, excruciatingly fast. Soon, he had no choice. He kissed her behind the ear and eased out of bed without waking her. There wouldn’t be much “art” involved, but he had to jot something down and get going.

  Virtue,

  I apologize for not saying this in person. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to scare you. I didn’t want you to try and stop me. I couldn’t bear to see you in more pain.

  I have to leave for now. Best case scenario, I’ll be home by nightfall. But we have to be prepared for the worst as well. This is one of the most dangerous things I’ve ever done, and I may not return.

  If anything should go wrong, I’ve tucked our combined earnings under the mattress. It should be enough to get you through the winter. There’s a separate envelope for the money that hasn’t yet been allotted. Give it to Law or Blasphemy. They know what goes where.

  I love you. You are truly my reason for living. And I’m sorry. I wish I could be there for you . . . always. But I can’t let evil go on unpunished. I hope you understand.

  Eternally yours,

  Herald

  ***

  “I still think you’re lying to me.”

  “By all means. Check the numbers,” Herald challenged. He even offered up his pen.

  The human blockade stared at him and kept dauntingly still. The seconds of the darkness they had remaining continued to tick past.

  Fine. Don’t. He stuck the pen back in his shirt pocket.

  As he reached, the “mates” on deck glowered down at him, shifting preemptively, as if he were about to pull his weapon.

  The only person Herald recognized was the man before him, the one he assumed was related to Barrett in some facet. He had Barrett’s stature and approximate hair color. It was an over-greased brassy color, lacking only Jud’s tweed of gray. They had the same dark sea-scum eye color as well. And what this man’s glare lacked in shrewdness, he compensated for with spite.

  “Let me talk to your father,” Herald said to confirm his guess. And perhaps he’d secure the ear of someone a tad more reasonable while he was at it. “Is he around?”

  Jud Barrett. The reasonable one. . .

  “He’s busy,” his son confirmed, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. Barrett Jr. then broadened his stance on the fishing boat’s entry point. “I’m in charge.”

  That’s what Herald was afraid of.

  His weight shifted as well, launching the dock into a wobble. A massive sigh was building. He practically blew out his eardrums keeping it contained.

  “Look.” Herald brought the flashlight beam back to the top of the statement in his attempt to run through the math for the third time. “This is the debt we accrued.” The losses were printed neatly in red. The gains in black. Any idiot could follow along. “Here are the printing fees and the number of copies. This is what we charged per copy. Here’s what we grossed. Here are the net earnings. And here’s the sixty percent . . . your take.”

  “Why should we have to eat your losses, professor?” he intoned, sizing him up with zero discretion.

  “It goes without saying.” Herald lifted his hands. Take your best swing.

  “Not in my book.”

  Herald had met his share of reticent learners in his professor days. But this was a whole new level of dense.

  “Well, that’s all I have right now.”

  He wasn’t foolish enough to bring more.

  “Then I want it all up front.”

  Herald’s eyes flicked to the additional men—a half dozen, at least—all armed and ready. “The deal was half now, half once we return! Who’s to say you won’t leave me there?”

  Or dump my body in the middle of the bay somewhere, he knew better than to add.

  Barrett Jr. had the upper hand. After glancing back at his crew, snickers there to bolster that certainty, his tough visage was momentarily shattered by the t
witch of amusement rippling through his lips and double chin. “Take it or leave it.”

  Leave it, would probably land a bullet in his back. His pockets would be emptied either way, so take it seemed his only option. It could still very well earn him that bullet, but it would buy him time and get him some degree closer to Orchard Island . . . in theory.

  Since deal-breaking would qualify as “double-crossing” in his book, stepping on board empty handed would end all future dealings with these people. “Fine.” Herald slapped the wad of banknotes into his fat palm.

  “Can’t trust a Hargreave,” he mumbled under his breath, though he had every intention to be heard.

  Barrett Jr. licked his fingertips and began counting the banknotes. He finally stepped aside, but that was more for the sake of his men. “Search him.”

  Herald was swarmed as soon as both feet were on board. “What the Hell for?”

  They quickly located and removed his only gun, handing it over to Barrett Jr. It was the one Herald had used to kill Asmodeus. If it was appropriate to consider something like that lucky, it was just that.

  He hadn’t missed. It hadn’t yet failed him.

  And it would be a Barrett family trophy once Herald was dead. Wasn’t that possibility moving toward a guarantee?

  After every single ounce of flesh was groped, the biggest blockhead of the lot threw an elbow into his gut, to remind him of his place, or more than likely, just for fun.

  Assuming he could get there in one piece, Herald did, indeed, have a willingness to kill with his bare hands. But did he have the skill?

  Herald would have surprise to his advantage. He had been practicing. He was familiar with the body’s weak spots. And he had plenty of motivation. Beyond that, Captain’s age was his only physical disadvantage. He was known to go on and on—even to Herald back when he pretended to care—about how he ate right and exercised regularly. On top of that, he had a busy household—wives, grown children, and a perpetual stream of visitors. He wouldn’t be particularly easy to isolate, especially in light of recent events. And without the threat of a loaded gun. . .

  The boat lurched into motion. Jud’s son, Hunter—quite the apt name for him, assuming Herald had overheard it correctly—had the task of steering and navigating. That put him out of Herald’s face, thankfully.

  Soon, the stars were washing out as the first sign of light crept up the eastern horizon. With nothing to do but wait, he took a seat in a damp corner. He kept himself as far removed from the activity and conversation as he could get on a boat that wasn’t spacious.

  With nautical clutter all over the place, he could have tried hiding. But that wasn’t the image he intended to portray. Instead, he went out of his way to stay out of the way while keeping himself in plain sight. But would Barrett’s crew return the courtesy?

  It wasn’t long before they decided to “take a break.” And bored dregs of society were all the more intrusive and indelicate.

  Without making it obvious they were doing so, they seemed to flock in Herald’s vicinity. Did they mean to discuss current events with negligible accuracy? Was it just to get a rise out of him? Did they know who he was? Were they goading him to say something to “enlighten” them? Would that amuse them or give them a reason to kick his pompous ass?

  “Let’s consult The Rising Tide, shall we?”

  Words he did not need to hear.

  The elder of the two—a lowlife who brought dirty old man to a whole new level—flipped out the pamphlet and gave Herald a glare that lingered.

  Putting themselves out there had its disadvantages. Sharing Virtue, body and mind, with the willfully ignorant, those who also had malice bursting from every extremity. . .

  It wasn’t in his—or her—best interest.

  He had his qualms about printing those pictures—they were a bit too revealing—but she was brave and willing to make that sacrifice. He was the editor. His say was final, but he didn’t feel it was his place to make the decision for her.

  The old man flipped to Page 2, no question, and shined a flashlight upon it, one meant for seafaring on the darkest of nights.

  “That’s some impressive work.” Gramps was clearly talking about her bruises, not the quality of her writing or the poignancy of the picture she was in.

  The blockhead was drooling over his shoulder—no exaggeration—but he snatched the pamphlet and the flashlight and made sure Herald could see. “How do we know you didn’t do that?” His sneer showed a near absence of teeth. He also had an abnormally square head—inbreeding’s finest—and fists, too, for that matter.

  Gramps took back his copy. “Or that other shitbrain. Oh, sorry. I meant Braintree.”

  They had about as much love for the Braintrees as they had for the Hargreaves.

  A third deckhand plodded his way over. He was the youngest on board, by far, and the runt of the litter. But that didn’t earn him any of Herald’s sympathy. He hoggishly sidled up to Gramps for a better view with his pimpled jaw agape. “Wow. . .”

  “What?”

  “She has a nice pair of. . .”

  The kid trailed off into his fantasy world and looked on the verge of soiling his pants.

  “Let me see that!” Blockhead stole it back. “You can barely see anything.”

  “Look at the shadow, you idiot,” Gramps filled in, flicking the page.

  Blockhead brought it right up to his eyes and at long last, the “light” went on. “Ahhhh. . .”

  A legitimate light also appeared between their fat heads.

  Herald didn’t need an excuse to stand up and leave. He had a few, to be honest.

  The other boat was still some distance away, but it likely had a better engine.

  And Herald wasn’t the only one concerned.

  After a few glances back, the three loitering men tossed The Rising Tide aside. It seemed to take an extraordinary amount of effort, but they began gathering their faculties to move on. Thank the Redeemer!

  He didn’t know how much more torture he could take.

  “Yeah, but thirty-eight grand?” Gramps said, leading the way with the light. Unfortunately, they were heading in Herald’s direction. “Are they fucking nuts?” That was directed over his shoulder. “After a few hard bangs, a hole is a hole,” he continued, and when he said that, he was glaring directly into Herald’s eyes.

  He was cornered. And was he hiding his anger?

  Not likely.

  “Where is she?” Blockhead hissed to him in much the same manner. “I’ll take good care of her for you. In case you don’t get home.”

  He backhanded Herald in the chest, hard. But Herald stood his ground.

  “Tell us. Oh, please. . .” Gramps inched closer, landing spittle in Herald’s face. “What I wouldn’t do to bend her over.”

  “I’ll give her her rights back.” Blockhead’s meaty fist pounded against his other hand.

  “Yeah, right up the ass!” the Runt tagged on.

  And that was enough.

  Herald’s hand flew to the kid’s throat, surprising the shit out of all of them. “I should kill you for even thinking about it.”

  Herald said it slowly and deliberately. He did not flinch or blink when his hand started to squeeze. He was completely calm and composed. Yes, I have the skill. . . .

  “What the fuck is going on back there?” Hunter’s voice called out, loud enough to hear over the waves, the engine, and Herald’s boiling blood.

  He handed off the wheel and was on his way back there.

  Eventually, Blockhead took a broad swing at him. They were clustered too close together for it to cause much damage, however. And Herald blocked it anyway.

  Then, in one smooth motion, he released the kid’s throat and had a palm thrust in motion. He went right for Blockhead’s nose and landed it. There was a crunch and immediate bloodshed.

  The Runt was still choking for air. Blockhead would be out of it for a few seconds at least. And Herald probably could have taken Gramps out if h
e was his only opponent. But Hunter was a few angry paces away and there were a couple of others milling about.

  Then, in the breaking light of dawn—maybe there is a God after all—Herald caught a glimpse of a very recognizable lighthouse. It was time to cut his losses. He elbowed himself loose and launched himself over the starboard side.

  The water was practically paralysis cold, but . . . good riddance.

  They circled the boat around a few times, trying to find him, spewing profanities and making obscene gestures close to where they believed him to be. He was using the adrenaline wisely, though, powering his way toward shore.

  That other boat was, indeed, an Authority vessel. It would be foolish of them to linger.

  Their problem, not his. The deal was off.

  They’d obviously blame him for that and then flaunt to their boss that they got all the money for doing less than half the job.

  Perhaps Barrett would begrudgingly accept this. They wouldn’t ever be “friends,” but would they be the worst of enemies? Was it safe to assume they didn’t make enough of a profit for that?

  As he stepped on shore and into the brutal wind, the boat made a sharp turn and soon disappeared. It looked as if they would get away. At that, he set all worries surrounding Jud Barrett aside.

  He had two other enemies to contend with first.

  The chill. . .

  He shivered up the hill toward the lighthouse. He wouldn’t be surprised if some of their abandoned things were still there. Tidying up would take money and labor away from other matters. Captain was painfully cheap, in general, and no one really came to this side of the island. That was why it had been “safe” for them to stay.

  To the northeast, the orchard in the valley was still dark and buried in fog. Due east, however, Cliffhaven had a lovely purple hue in the early morning light. It would shift to pink and then the light stonework would glow a shade of gold once the sun truly emerged.