by Helena Maeve
Leona barely flinched. “Simple. One, I’m not drugging myself, and two, I didn’t die because you were there to work your dark magic. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“You’re being extraordinarily cavalier…”
“Honey, since I joined the raiding crews, I’ve almost died some half a dozen times. The first couple are pretty scary, I’ll grant you, but by the third, you either make your peace or you quit.”
Alana couldn’t believe it. She refused to admit it could be a matter of habit. “You took ten times the prescribed dose. I wrote the instructions down—”
“And I lost them en route,” Leona said, shrugging. “I improvised. If it backfired, there was no one it could hurt except me. And that was sure to happen if I didn’t do it, so…”
Her blunt admission left Alana fumbling for a comeback. She had been counting on driving home the point that sagewort and pennyroyal were deadly herbs even in small quantities, but Leona had to go and snatch the wind out of her sails. Jackson had said something similar when they’d fought.
How had he put it? The choice was Leona’s?
Alana found herself in the unusual position of having to confront her own reticence on that score. She was so used to advocating for a woman’s right to choose that donning a Krall-shaped suit felt off. And yet the question burned in the back of her throat. It demanded to be asked.
“What was so bad… about having Jackson’s child?”
“Who’s having Jackson child?” Leona asked.
“You are. Were,” Alana amended.
“Oh, sweetheart… Is that what you thought?”
Alana frowned. ”He came into my shop asking for herbs to induce a miscarriage. What else am I supposed to think?” Leona’s smirk was beginning to get on her nerves. “If it wasn’t his, then whose? I know his brother’s dead—”
The change that swept over Leona then was swift, morphing from smug, self-satisfaction into an angry scowl. “How do you know about Merrick?”
“What does it—?”
“You don’t mention him around Jackson, you understand?” Something in Leona’s expression told Alana the other woman wasn’t screwing around. “I mean it. You don’t want to open that can of worms.”
“What can of worms?” Finn couldn’t have chosen a better time to join them. “What did I miss?”
Neither Alana nor Leona broke their stare for a long moment. Alana was the first to lose her appetite for glaring. “Nothing,” she lied. “Everything’s fine.”
“Except for the part where I’m not in bed like a good patient,” Leona added, snagging a piece of bread off Finn’s tray.
He rolled his eyes. “That’s what I said. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours… You may be Wonder Woman, but you’re not—”
“Wonder who?” Leona repeated, staring at him blankly.
Finn made a face and turned to Alana. “You’ve heard of her, right?”
“I— Maybe?” Her knowledge of Old World fiction had been almost exclusively confined to the books the council had tolerated and the few tomes her mother had been able to secrete away in their home, far from the censors who deemed anatomy, mathematics, and Oscar Wilde to be subversive abominations.
“Close enough,” Finn said. “See? You may think you’re invincible, but you’re actually perfectly fallible.”
“I don’t follow,” Leona answered with a headshake. “Maybe if you were to tell me more about this wondrous woman of yours…”
It didn’t take much more to get Finn distracted by a subject neither Leona nor Alana knew much about. If he noticed the tension that lingered at the table, he was soon too animated to acknowledge it.
Chapter Ten
“Look at you, practically glowing!” Maity nudged her elbow. “Idaho made last night worth your while, didn’t he?”
Alana didn’t have it in her to duck her head and feign shame when she had already heard similar remarks from Leona, Finn and Siggy alike. She sank her hands into the vat of lukewarm, soapy water and dragged up the laundry instead, neither confirming nor denying Maity’s guess.
Last night had been—exciting, wondrous, overwhelming—a necessity. In the aftermath, Alana felt bolstered in her new position. It was what she’d been gunning for since Jackson had taken her arm back in New Eden. She just hadn’t been counting on complications arising as soon as she rolled out of bed in the aftermath.
Leona’s scathing warning still rang in her ears as she dragged a pair of trousers onto the washboard and set to scrubbing them clean.
“Watch your fingers,” Maity advised. “Wouldn’t want Jackson complaining that we’re working you too hard.”
“I don’t mind hard work,” Alana retorted.
In New Eden, she had washed and patched her own clothes, cooked her own meals, and kept a shop. Once she got over the adjustment period, there wasn’t really that much difference between keeping her own home and pitching in for the betterment of Drifter Central. She just had to put out of her mind the fact that they had burnt down her home. If she didn’t think that most of what she had to work with was likely stolen from other—peaceful—settlements, she could almost take pride in hanging crisp, white linen on the clothes lines.
“So you won’t mind joining me in the infirmary this evening?” Maity said, rolling up her sleeves as she hooked her ankle around a wooden stool to pull it closer to the tub.
Alana faltered. ”I think Jackson said he would have need of me this evening.”
“It won’t take long. I’ve got a kid with a fever that won’t break—”
“He said I’m not to work in the infirmary anymore,” Alana interjected bluntly. “After Leona… I’m sure it’s for the best.” If she didn’t acknowledge the look of abject confusion on the severe hexagon of Maity’s face, it was easy to get back to work and scrub the living daylights out of the dusty black trousers clutched firmly in her fists.
Maity swore. “I’ll talk to him. Everyone’s asking for you and he’s thinking of pulling you out of the rotation? Selfish pig.”
“Please don’t.”
“He won’t lay a hand on you if you’re a little late,” Maity scoffed.
“You don’t know that.” The thought of returning to the infirmary and having another life in her hands was more than she could bear.
Jackson had said it bluntly—she was his thrall. It followed that he could do to her as he pleased, when he pleased. Had he expressed any concern about Alana continuing to serve as healer, there might have been a reason to dread his reaction. As it stood, Alana knew she was only digging herself in deeper by implying otherwise.
She saw it in Maity’s eyes, the sharp arch of her thin brows. “Idaho—Jackson,” the other woman amended, “he beats you?”
Alana swallowed hard, her fingers clenching and relaxing into soggy cloth. “No.”
“Then… He’s cruel to you? He hurts you in his bed?”
“What would you know about that?” Alana retorted, hackles rising because it would have been easier to despise and fear him if he didn’t undo her defenses so effortlessly. Instead, Jackson had to treat her kindly and speak softly when they made love. She felt more wife than slave in his bed and the thought rankled.
Maity hitched up her shoulders. “Only that his brother had the same disease and we were all happier when Leona ceased her mewling.” She took up a bar of coarse, yellowish soap and scrubbed it against the slats of her washboard with a vigorous twist.
Everything about Maity’s posture told Alana to let it go, but curiosity was like a splinter under the skin. It needed to be plucked out, the wound soothed with oil. “Did she kill him?” Alana asked. “Jackson’s brother, I mean. Did she—”
“Bite your tongue,” Maity hissed, glancing around them nervously.
The laundry room was awash with voices—male and female alike partook in this rotation, scrubbing clean their neighbors’ clothes and bed sheets as well as their own. No one, as far as Alana could tell, was paying them any mind.
“What goes
on between a master and his or her thrall is no one’s business but theirs,” Maity said, though she looked reluctant to bring that up. “Unless Gideon says otherwise. As for Merrick and Leona… What happened there is of the past.”
And that’s where it should remain, Maity left unsaid. Alana understood. She was used to women clamping shut when they feared they’d said too much. Mostly, though, it was out of fear of husbands or fathers, never fear of another woman.
Perhaps that was because no women like Leona had lived in New Eden.
“Could be Jackson just doesn’t know what to do with himself if I’m not there,” Alana mused, smiling. “He needs so much attention.”
It was a tentative shot at levity and not a very good one, at that, but Maity grinned, shaking her head. “Pretty face like yours, I’d be surprised to hear otherwise. You should’ve seen Siggy and me, back in the day…”
Maity was a talkative sort and she thought nothing of sharing her business as she worked over a long, frayed shawl too fine to have been spun by drifter hands. The hours passed quicker with her steady stream of gossip—most of which was humorous and didn’t so much as allude to violence or heartache.
Alana listened with little input of her own. She was content to embrace silence while her friend filled the afternoon with her stories. Mercifully, there was no more mention of Leona or the infirmary.
* * * *
The slippery tile floors of the baths took greater care to navigate than Alana was equipped for in her bare feet, so it came as little surprise when she barreled into Finn on her way out. Her limp, still-damp hair flew into her eyes as she fought to regain her balance, but it was no use. Her hip rammed the sharp corner of the wall a mere split second before she twisted and pinned her upper arm into the wall.
Finn steadied her with both hands. “You all right?” He was laughing, the bastard.
“Fine.” Alana groaned, but quick on the heels of mortification was a pointed “Ow!”
Her comb had bounced across the tile and fetched up against the far wall by his feet. Finn bent to retrieve it. “Why don’t you wear your slippers?”
“What slippers?”
“The ones—oh, Jackson didn’t take you to the market yet?” Finn’s expression went from mild concern to unabashed surprise. “You’re in for a treat, doll. I’ll show you.”
Doll? Alana let that slide. “Wait, I need to leave my things—”
“I’ll come with you.” For a thrall attached to one of the more trying women Alana had ever met, Finn seemed to give very little thought to what his mistress allowed. He hooked an arm through Alana’s, tugging her along in companionable silence. It only lasted for a heartbeat, but for Finn that was as good as an hour. “So how are you settling in? Do you like it so far? I know the lack of windows can become a little much, but it’s not so bad, right? And if you can’t stand living underground, you can always tell Jackson to take you topside for a spell.”
“I actually haven’t thought of that,” Alana admitted. Not of traveling topside, but of staying underground for so long that her eyes seemed to have adjusted to the shadows and she barely even scented the stale air.
Finn patted her hand. “I’m sure he’ll agree. I mean he has to let you out sometime, right? You have to learn how to shoot, how to track a mutt… How else will you survive in the badlands?”
He spoke with such assurance that Alana didn’t doubt that he was being sincere. She dug in her heels, drawing them to an abrupt halt. “Why would I need to know how to survive in the badlands?”
Finn lurched forward, caught himself and met Alana’s gaze. “Well, Idaho’s a scout, isn’t he?”
“So?”
“So you’re his thrall. You’ll accompany him when he goes scouting. That’s how it works.” Finn smiled, his cheeks dimpling with pride. “It’s what I do with Leona. She trained me for three months then we were off. Granted, it’s a little scary at first, but you get used to it fast.”
Alana couldn’t return his smile. “I find that hard to believe,” she said more sedately. Surely Jackson knew she wasn’t scout material. Put a blade in her hand and she’d drop it just as quickly.
“Don’t worry about that now,” Finn advised, snagging an arm around her shoulders. “We’re going to find you some shoes.”
He was so excited about showing her around that Alana didn’t resist the insistent press of his hands. Sooner or later, she would have to know where she could acquire the things she needed—the gifts she’d received from other thralls during the claiming ritual were a welcome surprise, but Alana knew she couldn’t survive on other people’s charity.
What a uniquely drifter sentiment, she mused as Finn slotted their hands together and tugged her along through the rabbit’s warren of corridors carved into the crust of the Earth by human hands.
The soldiers charged with the construction of the bunker must have been very wise to install a ventilation system into the rock walls, the steel conduits filtering in air from the surface so there was no risk of asphyxiation for the residents down below. The only drawback was the lack of viable crops—and the space to cultivate them—which meant the future of Haven was entirely dependent on attacking and pillaging other settlements.
Alana set that fatalistic thought aside as they reached the marketplace. It was a busy, sprawling jumble of stalls and tents, noisier even than the mess hall at breakfast. Tables laden with a cornucopia of trinkets and apparel hemmed blankets spread on the cold ground and strewn with everything from Old World shampoo to books with yellowed pages. It reminded Alana of New Eden so strongly that for a long, tenuous beat she could hardly draw breath.
Krall had once said she had a cat’s fortune of always landing on her feet. He was wrong. She merely carried her scrapes on the inside, hurt and grief buried under a thin veneer of adaptability.
“This is what you’re after,” Finn said, dragging Alana away from a paperback of something called Moby Dick, its edges curled from heat and the cover picture of a bearded fellow cracked with age. Finn held out a pair of wicker-soled slippers, open-toed and lined with cloth. The workmanship looked poor.
“I haven’t got any coin,” Alana deflected.
“That’s all right. Just say you’ll work an hour in the foundry. That’ll do, won’t it?”
“An hour and a half,” said the slim, wiry salesman, shifting in his seat.
“She’s Idaho’s,” Finn countered with a scowl. “Her time’s more precious than that.”
Alana seized his sleeve. “Shouldn’t I ask Jackson first?”
“Because he’ll say no to a pair of slippers?” Finn asked, arching a brow. “Reed hates the foundry—”
“Clogs up my lungs,” the salesman supplied, by way of explanation.
“So you take part of his shift,” Finn went on, “he sells you shoes. Jackson need not get involved and you’ll have an easier time in the baths.”
“That’s how it works, huh?” The slippers still didn’t entice her, but she had to admit to their practicality. The bruise on her hip smarted with every step. ”All right, I’ll take them.”
“My shift’s tomorrow at noon,” the salesman said. “Be sure to give them my name.” He spelled it out on a slip of paper that he slotted into the slippers before passing the lot to Alana.
“That was easier than I thought it’d be,” she confessed as Finn walked her through the stalls. In a matter of minutes, she had gone from owning two pairs of shoes—one of them blood-soaked—to three. It took just as long to procure a nail file, a pot of cream and a beaded necklace that Finn insisted she should buy.
“It’ll drive Jackson wild,” he whispered in her ear on the way out.
Alana shivered, but whether it was the brush of Finn’s breath against her earlobe or the thought of Jackson overcome with desire for her, she couldn’t say. She tried not to think about it too much, either, because she still felt like she was walking a tightrope between clinging to the education and mores that had been bred into her and the
ease with which her new circumstances were pulling her id to the surface.
“I haven’t thanked you for what you did,” Finn said, once they had reached Jackson’s room. “For Leona, I mean.”
“There’s no need. I didn’t really—”
“You don’t have to be modest,” he cut in. “I know she’s difficult and hard to like, but I’d be lost without her. When I couldn’t rouse her…”
It was nothing she wanted to dredge up again, but Finn was hovering in the doorway, neither leaving nor making any sign that he wanted to stay and Alana found it easier than ever to give in to guilt. “You know I’m the reason she even got her hands on that poison, right? It’s not like I’m Mother Theresa here…”
Finn’s eyebrows knitted together tightly. “Who?”
“Never mind,” Alana said, waving aside the question. She wasn’t sure she would’ve known how to explain it. “What I’m trying to say is that I did a terrible, irresponsible thing and you shouldn’t be thanking me.”
“You saved her life.”
“And nearly killed her. I don’t know why you and Jackson think that makes us even, but—”
“The child would’ve killed her, too,” Finn exclaimed, voice thick with certitude. Alana had heard Krall use the same tone when he was trying to convince his flock of some truth that relied entirely upon the power of belief.
“You don’t know that,” Alana sighed.
Finn wouldn’t hear it. “Haven’t you wondered why there are no children in this whole damn city?”
The question had not crossed her mind. Then again, it had only been a handful of days since Alana had arrived in Haven. “I assumed they were being kept somewhere safe…”
“There are no children,” Finn said and this time his conviction had nothing to do with faith. He sounded exasperated, as if Alana was the one refusing to face facts. “People can’t have children in Haven. They haven’t since I got here three years ago.”
“What? But—” There were some teenagers. Alana had seen them on the laundry rotation and in the mess hall.