Chapter 35. The Embassy
Kenny walks us in. By now, he’s found reasons to reach out and touch her. She’s got a tiny smile on her lips that makes me want to throttle the both of them. That fucking fast. Logic tells me to back off—Kenny isn’t a bad guy, just one I dislike.
I dislike a lot of people.
He steps over to the desk, and I lean into her space. “Forget that kiss already, little girl?”
She twists, a wisp of hair falling into her eyes as she smirks at me. “Jealous?”
Yes. She pauses, her head tilting slightly as she stares, fascinated. What can she see in my eyes?
“O’Malley,” Kenny calls. I pull away from Nurrin, cursing softly even as I stare at her. She is such a bad idea. If I could just remember that. “Is a queen ok?”
“Give us the suite,” I say abruptly, not looking away from Nurrin. Her eyes go wide, and anger colors her cheeks.
Now I look away, right into Kenny’s angry blue eyes, just before he grins and nods. He’s gotten good at hiding what he’s feeling. I suppose nine years and a presidency will do that.
“What happened to age restrictions for your office?” I ask lazily.
Even the unflappable receptionist reacts to that question, a shocked little gasp. Kenny smiles slightly. “Does it bother you?”
“It doesn’t affect me. I don’t give a fuck about shit that doesn’t affect me.”
The receptionist mouth forms a startled little O, and Nurrin vibrates with anger at my side.
Kenny just stares at me.
I step up to the desk and give the receptionist a cool smile. “Keys?”
“Suite 102. On the tenth floor, sir,” she says faintly. I think her professional curtsy is more habit anything at this point. I take Nurrin’s arm and pull her into me. “Thanks, Kenny. Appreciate the escort.”
I turn away and get halfway across the lobby before his voice rings out behind me. “It’s Kendall, O’Malley. Or better yet—President Stiles.”
I don’t look back.
Chapter 36. In The Suite
She shakes my arm off as soon as we’re in the elevator. I eye the contraption briefly then shake my head, annoyed. Only fucking 1 would have something as ridiculously frivolous as an elevator. Damn politicians and their fucking obsession with keeping the world the same. It’s not. It can’t be. The rest of the world has adjusted—when are they going to wake the fuck up?
“What was that?” she asks softly. She’s not as angry as I expect, and that throws me off.
“Kenny Buchman Stiles. We”—I make a face—“grew up together. Sort of.”
“You hate him.”
I blink at her, startled. Nurrin laughs. “Come on, O’Malley. You all but peed on me to mark your territory. You embarrassed him in front of his people. You challenged him.” She smirks. “You weren’t this aggressive with Omar.”
“I can kill Omar,” I say reasonably.
It should bother me more, that I can say that reasonably.
“Can’t assassinate the president of the United States, can you?” she muses. “Why do you hate him, O’Malley?”
“Mind your own fucking business, Nurrin. I’m going to shower and head out.”
She trails me into the bathroom, “Where are you going?”
I stop stripping to stare at her. “What does it matter? I’m not taking you. You aren’t leaving this fucking room, do you hear me? I don’t trust this haven, or Kenny. He’ll have people watching us.”
“Paranoid much?” she asks.
“My paranoia keeps me alive. And you, as well. Remember that.”
She rolls her eyes, and I nudge her toward the door. I need a moment, a space of breath between us.
“Why did you do it?” she asks, tilting her head back to look at me.
I don’t ask her what she’s talking about. I sigh and lean against the sink. I need sleep, so fucking bad. It feels like I haven’t slept since 8 fell.
“Do you really want to do this, Nurrin? Because we’ve done pretty good, ignoring it.”
“Can’t ignore the elephant forever,” she shoots back. I bite down on my tongue to keep from saying something snarky to her. Glance at her from under my eye lashes.
“Biological needs, Nurrin. You were there. I was there. It was fun. Nothing more.”
Her eyes go wide and startled, and then she nods, too abruptly. “Nothing more. Good. Then you’ll excuse me if I don’t want you marking me as yours. Kendall wants to have dinner with me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “When did that happen?”
“On the way here. Weren’t you listening?”
“I don’t want you spending time with him, Nurrin. He’s dangerous.”
“Says the man who would happily kill the Black Priest,” she says mockingly as she pushes away from the wall. “Keep your hands off me, Finn. We’re traveling together. Nothing more.”
“Not even you could make yourself believe that, Nurrin,” I say softly.
She gives me a thin-lipped smile. “I’m very adept at believing the truth.”
The door to her room is closed when I emerge from the shower. I consider knocking on it, but she doesn’t want to talk to me—she’s made that very clear. A closed door speaks volumes.
So I dress quickly, grab a few knives and my gun belt. Shove my feet into some dusty boots. “Stay here,” I shout.
“Fuck you, O’Malley,” she shouts back, amiably.
I grin and head out.
When I left 1, I swore I’d never come back. With Da dead, Buchman dying, and Kelsey worse than dead, I had nothing to keep me here but bad memories. There was a lot of anger over that last mission, and not many were sad to see me go.
There were a few, though. And those few are who I go to now.
Claire Donal was in the US visiting her new niece when the dead rose. She was one of the ex-pats Da scrapped together and evacuated to 1. A lot of them didn't survive. They didn't know how to survive in this new world, one so separated from the one that they always known. Claire, on the other hand, did. She didn't just survive in 1, she thrived.
In Ireland, she had been a town gossip, a skill that proved useful in our new world. She knew everything that was happening in the city and had no problems bartering that knowledge for anything she needed.
If there was anything I missed about 1, it was her.
Claire didn’t like the pretense most of 1 embraced—she didn’t have a shop in the market district, to peddle her information.
She’s a creature of comfort—she likes to be at home with her hot tea in front of her and her feet buried under a rug. If you have information, you can damn well come to her.
Which is what I am doing now. The house is quiet—no one's around it, but that could be because of the hour of the day. I tap on the door, and when I hear her voice, push it open. Her eyes go very wide when she sees me, and she makes a little noise like a shriek. I smirk, and she screams at me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demands.
“It seemed like a good time to come home.”
“This isn't your home. It hasn't been since—” She stops abruptly, and her face takes on a slightly apologetic look. Her eyes find mine. I shake my head.
“Don't worry about it. It was a long time ago.”
“It was. But not so long ago that you've forgotten.”
I shrug. “It's hard to forget something you live through.”
“Especially when you shouldn't have?” she asks archly.
My expression goes a little cold, and she laughs. “Don't bother with that—it's never worked on me. I saw you grow up, remember?”
“Bitch,” I say, fondly.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. “I thought the world would end before O’Malley came home to 1.”
“Didn't that happen twenty years ago?”
She gives me a look that’s hard to read, even for me, then stands. “I'm going to make us some tea, and then you're going to tell me what the hell you
're doing here.”
She’s still bossy as fuck.
Some things really will never change, I think, following her to the kitchen and watching as she putters around boiling tea and dropping in old tea bags.
Part of me wants to ask where she’s still getting her supply of tea, but I don't—some things about Claire you just leave alone and let be a mystery. We all deserve a few secrets.
She hands me a cup of bitter brew, and we go back to the living room. I wait as she settles into her chair. “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you—of course, I am. But what the fuck are you doing here, O’Malley?”
I hesitate, not sure what to tell her. And then I say, “There's a girl.”
Claire laughs. “There always is, with you. Is it like Kelsey?”
Again, I hesitate, weighing the question. So many ways to answer. Because in ways—yes. They could pass as sisters, she is so similar to Kelsey. But there are differences, a refreshing innocence about Nurrin that Kelsey never had—couldn’t have, in the world we knew.
“Of a sort,” I say finally.
“I’ve heard bits and pieces about you over the years, O’Malley. You haven’t made many friends in the West.”
“Did you think I would?” I ask.
Claire’s eyes soften, a little. “I had hoped, darling boy.”
I don’t respond—Claire has always been good at seeing through and calling me on my bullshit. And has absolutely no qualms in loving me, despite my faults.
“What is happening in the Haven?” I ask softly. “How the hell did Kenny win the presidency? Have they lost all sense?”
“He ran on the family ticket. Even using his mother’s maiden name, he was something familiar. With everything that’s happening, familiar is nice. It was necessary.” She shrugs. “And frankly, he hasn’t been a bad president. The Havens have done well under him.”
I snort, “The ones that survive. The ones the infects haven’t taken.”
Her eyes narrow on me, and she takes a deliberate sip of her tea before setting it aside. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I get up, pacing anxiously. “Same currency?”
Claire has the grace to look offended. “You don’t buy information, O’Malley. You’re a friend. I won’t demand payment from you.”
“And I won’t take your charity,” I say gently. Something flickers in her eyes, grateful respect.
“The Havens are falling,” I say bluntly. “Seven in the past year. That we know about. The zombies are changing—ERI-Milan has always been a disease of mutation, and I think it’s had another jump. I think our time behind these walls—in the safety of the Havens and the Walkers—it’s coming to an end.”
“The Havens have been safe for twenty years, O’Malley. You can’t waltz in here and say that’s going away. People won’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what people believe. They can accept the truth, or they can ignore it—neither makes it less true.” I pace the length of the room. “You can’t stay here—they will come to 1. The hordes will keep moving until there is nothing. The infection doesn’t burn off—we won’t cure it.”
“And you came to 1 to deliver this message? Seems incredibly altruistic for you, O’Malley.”
“My partner,” I say softly. “He’s missing. I think he came here with a Black priest. It’s the only reason I’m back.”
She studies me for a moment. Then, “Stiles will insist on making this a state visit. You know that, right?”
I give Claire a tight little smile, my eyes going cold. “Kenny can go fuck himself.”
“That won’t be a popular opinion here, darling. The boy has done well by us. And people still remember you and your loyalty to the First Family.”
“It wasn’t to the family, Claire. You know that. It was to her,” I say.
“So what will you do? Alienate the man who can help you?”
I don’t answer, because I don’t know what to say. Accepting Kenny’s help goes against my best instincts—and my instincts have served me well to keep me alive.
“I’ll put up with it, to a point. I need time to get everything together in 1 and to find Collin.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“I haven’t decided yet, but you are right about one thing. This isn’t home anymore. I’m done here. This will be my last time in 1.” Sorrow fills her eyes, and I lean in to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for everything. I would have been lost here without you."
"Of course. Do you want me to come if there's a party? You might need a few people who like you."
I think about Ren, with all of her questions unanswered, and this woman who knows too much about me. "No. I think it would be best if I didn't have allies."
A smile turns her lips. “You can't protect her or hide her forever."
"Probably not, but I'll give it a damn good shot."
Claire laughs, a solid, hearty noise that follows me as I leave her house.
Chapter 37. State Parties
I will say this about Kenny: he moves damn fast.
The room is a mess of dresses and glittering shoes when I return. Nurrin is grinning like an idiot and talking to an effeminate man in his mid forties.
I don't say anything, just stop and stare with my eyebrows raised. She smirks. “Kendall is throwing you a party to welcome you home formally.”
“Well,” I say, “that's very nice of him. Glad he asked me if I could clear my schedule first.”
She snorts and turns away from me to discuss dress choices with the other man, effectively dismissing me from the entire conversation.
Little Nurrin has grown balls in the time we’ve spent together. I'm not sure what Collin will think of her when we find him.
“You should get dressed,” she says over her shoulder “The party starts in an hour.”
I'm tempted to argue with her and stay in what I'm wearing. I have no need to impress the officials and pompous assholes who populate this Haven. But I heave a sigh and go to my room to change.
One thing I learned quickly after the Turn: politicians don't change. Doesn't matter if the dead rose and are outside the door eating the guests, politicians stay the same—the same self-serving, power-hungry bastards who have nothing else in life to do but spend the people’s money. This party promises to be more of the exact same behavior.
But it’s a good excuse for Nurrin to get dressed up, and I won’t pass up that opportunity. She looks fucking hot in a dress. She’s picked a jade green one tonight, with a low back and high Mandarin collar that wraps around her smooth throat. It contrasts sharply with her blonde hair and green eyes, and I want her, a sharp pang of desire that hits like they always do—unexpectedly and with the force of a bullet.
She gives me a slow look, taking in my suit, the jacket hanging open, and slicked back hair.
“How many weapons are you carrying?” I ask, stepping into the living room.
Her eyes sparkle with sad amusement—it’s the same question her brother asks, every morning.
“Three.”
I almost ask about ammo, but I don’t. The fact that she’s managed to hide three weapons—at least one gun—in that sexy as sin dress is too much of a turn on.
“You know this is going to be a mad house, don’t you?” I say softly. She’s turned away from me, the smooth expanse of her back a wide oval of unmarked skin. I itch to trace the curve of her spine, trail kisses down to where her back flares to meet her ass. Push her until she’s panting and begging.
“It’ll be fun. Kendall promised to show me around the Haven after.”
I go still, the desire gone abruptly. “Excuse me?”
“After the party. He knew you’d probably want to see some of your old friends, so he offered to show me around a little bit. Why?”
“Nurrin,” I say, practically snarl. “He’s dangerous. For the love of god, stay away from him.”
“You don’t like him.”
“I don’t trus
t him,” I correct. Her hands are in her hair, attempting to pin it up. I pluck the little pins from her fingers, let it fall, and lean past her to pick up a small decorative comb. I recognize it—of course I do.
Kenny is a sick fuck.
I tuck the comb in one side, pulling her hair out of her eyes. Nurrin lets out a shaky breath and twists to stare at me. Too close. Too much. I want too much, and I can’t. Her eyes go soft and sleepy, a hint of a smile to her lips.
And I step away, giving us both the space I need to get my head on straight. Because this can’t happen—not here, not now. Maybe—probably—not ever.
“Do you trust me?” I ask quietly. Because I want that. I want that so much—no one but Collin has trusted me in so long I’ve begun to forget what it actually feels like to not be looked at with scorn and hate.
Oh, some people, the smart ones like Lissel, will keep some respect in their eyes. But it’s not for me. It’s for Thrasher’s solider, the one who still has ties and a past.
I hate her, for dying. For leaving me behind with this mess while she escaped. I hate myself, more, for living.
“You don’t make trusting you easy,” she says.
I incline my head, acknowledging that. I don’t. I never will. It is who I am.
“Yes,” she says.
A little bit of the tension inside me eases, and I put a shawl around her shoulders. “Come on, Ren. We’re gonna be late.”
The party is, quite predictably, ridiculous.
Women in slinky dresses, men in suits, not a single one of them carrying weapons.
Cater waiters—fucking cater waiters—wandering around with trays of delicacies and dishes nobody's ever heard of.
Except here. Here the stupid extravaganza is commonplace. It's nothing—just a little party to welcome home a hero.
Not that anyone believes that. No one here thinks I’m a hero. No one has for a very long time, and I can see it in the looks that they give me when I think I'm not looking.
Fuck it. And fuck them. I don't care. I watch Ren, concentrating on her as she navigates this glittering ball of vipers.
The World Without End (Book 2): The Horde Without End Page 10