by Jane Abbott
‘Don’t say it,’ I snapped. I was fed up hearing just how good everyone was. ‘Nobody’s perfect, Alex. All of us fuck up at some point, for whatever reason, and everyone lies when –’ I broke off, and stared at her. ‘Oh shit.’
My grandfather had once told me about these weird pictures they used to have, made up of tiny coloured squares. If you looked at them straight, they were just a jumble with no pattern or purpose. But if you focused in just the right way, at just the right angle, a picture would appear within that jumble, so clear you’d wonder how you’d not been able to see it before. Like magic, he’d said. And after that first reveal, you’d see it every time, without even having to try. I was beginning to see that picture now, the one that’d been hidden in a mess of lies and treachery. And it was so fucking clear it was frightening.
‘Jem? What is it?’ Alex asked, pushing at my chest, and I wondered if she could feel it, that sudden lurch, the stop-start of my blood.
‘Everyone lies, Alex,’ I whispered. ‘Everyone fucking lies.’ Except one person.
‘What d’you mean?’ she asked. Then, her voice rising a little, ‘Jem, you’re scaring me.’
‘You were right. Cade has no control over the Watch,’ I said. ‘But someone else does.’
‘Yes. Garrick.’
I shook my head. ‘Higher.’
There are times when long explanations are needed, when arguments have to be worked through, unfolded and opened up, so everyone can see and marvel and worry and fear. Plenty of times. But this wasn’t one of them. A few seconds was all it took for her to see what I did, and when she groaned and I heard her despair, I slipped a hand behind her neck to bring her closer, needing her and knowing she needed me too. Easing back against the wall, I settled her head into my shoulder; it felt good there, like it was made for it.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘The Tower. They know everything.’
I thought about Ballard, all his boasting about the information he’d had, where and how he’d got it, the Tower, the games they’d played, the giving back and forth.
‘Yeah, they know. I think they’ve known the whole time.’
‘But Garrick –’
‘I don’t know, Alex.’
I had no idea what Garrick was up to. Like all of us, he answered to the Tower, but for all his faults he had one abiding principle: he didn’t lie. And I thought about that, thought about the very beginning, when I’d first got involved in this mess, when I’d been summoned to face the Council with him; thought about his mood in that cold room, and his showdown with Cade at the gate. Remembered his words, as I’d packed for the journey out. You know you’re screwed. Recalled his rage in my quarters, the piece of paper he’d left behind for me to read. I thought about all of it, and none of it helped. Because if Garrick knew – if he’d known all along – then why the hell had he sent Jackson to follow us from the Hills? Why hadn’t he screwed Alex? Why had he warned me about Reed? And why the fuck hadn’t he killed me already?
‘Why wait until now? If they already knew, why not attack us earlier?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe they thought it’d be easier to deal with everything at one time, in one place. Reel you all in and get rid of you once and for all.’
‘That’s a huge risk,’ she said, and I wished I could’ve laughed. Not the realists Ballard had claimed, but idealists, all of them, without any real clue of what they’d taken on.
‘Not so much. This is their territory, Alex. They’ve already got every advantage.’ I didn’t add what she didn’t want to hear: that the only way the Tower could’ve been sure of every detail was if they’d had inside knowledge. And it didn’t matter any more who it was; only what they’d revealed.
‘You have to get out of here, Jem. Please. Find some way to get to Cade and Ballard and warn them.’
‘Too late for that,’ I told her, and she twisted in my arms.
‘No!’
‘Alex, listen. Listen! They’re on their own now, just like us. The best way out of this – the only way – is to deal with what we can, not worry about what we can’t. D’you understand?’
‘Please!’ She squirmed again, wriggling to free herself, but I caught one of her hands, kissing it hard before pinning it to my chest.
‘You trusted me before, remember? Now I need you to do it again. Okay? Trust me, and I’ll get us out of this.’
She looked down at our hands, mine covering hers, so much larger and steadier and stronger. And I knew she was thinking of that room and those Guards, our hands on her knife; knew she was thinking of that night when she’d come to me, giving herself but taking too, the night when she’d shed her vows as easily as she’d shed her clothes. I knew she was thinking about it, because I was too, and I needed her to remember it, to feel what she had then. Not the desire, but the trust.
She didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything; didn’t argue or nod or shake her head. She just stared, her eyes threatening tears. That’s how close to the edge she was. She’d been so brave, so determined, but the past few days had finally taken its toll, fear upon fear, shock after shock. And too much shock can do terrible things to a person, building a wall as thick as the Tower, chilling to the core to freeze the warmest heart. So the strength I’d taken from her earlier, I now tried to give back, and I pulled her down, folding her into me, letting her hear my words and feel my touch. The minutes stretched out, but I kept murmuring, kept us both calm, kept her with me, and didn’t let go. And when she finally spoke it was in a whisper almost too low to hear.
‘Sing me that song,’ she said. ‘The one you sang before. In the Hills.’ A tune to tame her terror, so she could deal with everything else.
I don’t know why I did it then, just knew it was time; that somehow I’d been saving it for just that moment. Not just the tune, but the words too. Not my song any more, but ours. And if it was all I had left to give her, if this was the final comfort I could offer, then that was okay, because it was the right thing.
She pressed her head closer, hearing with one ear, feeling with the other, and I made it through the first couple of verses, before pausing to gather breath and thought.
‘Again,’ she whispered.
‘There’s more,’ I said, but she rolled her head. So I started over, and when I got to the same point and she said nothing, I kept going. When I launched into the chorus again, she tried copying me, her voice uncertain but low and sweet. After, we listened to the silence for a while, before she sat up suddenly, turning to straddle my legs, and thumped me gently on the shoulder. And I finally saw her smile.
‘You made up that last bit,’ she accused.
I held up both hands. ‘No, I swear. It’s a real song, or at least it was. My mother named me for it before she died. I guess she liked it for some reason.’
She stopped smiling then, no longer feeling the joy. ‘You said you didn’t know the words.’
‘Been a long time since I’ve sung them.’ Too long.
‘What’s a bullfrog?’ she asked, and I knew she was looking for a distraction.
‘They were these funny-looking things, used to live in the water and hop around. Made this weird croaking noise. My grandfather told me about them. Drew me a picture once.’ I grinned at her. ‘Looked fucking ugly.’
She palmed my cheek, leaning down, staring at me with those grey-green eyes. ‘Then you can’t have been named for one.’
And that’s all it took. The press of her mouth was warm and slow but I sensed her need, and her uncertainty. She clutched my head, drawing me up, and I returned her kiss, fighting the familiar stirring, the hardening and thickening, the beat of blood and that voice in my head that urged me to screw the niceties and give her what she wanted, the assurance she sought. Then slowly, gently, I pushed her away.
‘Not now, Alex. Not here.’ Not in that room, with its memories of pain. Not with her torn stomach and all her fears.
She took my hand and placed it flat to her belly, pressing to make me feel her hurt. ‘I
need this, Jem. I need to know.’
I knew what she meant so, tugging the cloak from her shoulders, I slid my hands to her arse, lifting her onto her knees to bring her forwards. She watched, silent, as I bent to lick her carved skin, letting her know it was all right, that she was still desirable. So fucking desirable. And I felt her flare of heat, felt the quickening of her heart with my mouth, and heard her sigh.
‘You’re sure?’ I whispered. In eight years I’d never thought to ask a woman; payment pretty much guaranteed compliance.
‘Yes,’ she said. It was that simple.
Grabbing the chain, I pulled her to me, suddenly desperate to taste her. Devour her. Ready to fill that need of hers and knowing why she’d asked. This was how she’d deal with her anger, and how she’d face her fears: fears for her husband, for her brother and Tate. Fears for me, and fears for herself. And I didn’t mind. I didn’t share her concern about being used. Alex could use me until it hurt.
Her fingers worked at my ties while mine slipped between her thighs, teasing and readying her, and I shifted when she pulled on my trousers to ease me out of them, just enough so she could guide me in. I hadn’t come here for this, hadn’t intended it to happen, but once I was inside her, I never wanted to leave.
‘Fuck, you’re so beautiful.’ I cupped her face, kissing her again, groaning when she moved on me to clench, squeeze tight and release again. Clamping her hands to my shoulders she pushed me back to the wall so I lounged against it while she took control, timing it perfectly, rising high, sinking low and circling slow, her thighs trapping me like a vice. Torture, like I’d never known it before. And joy to the fucking world.
Then suddenly she stopped. Gripping my hair to hold me still, she stared intently, fixing me with those eyes, passionate and fierce. ‘Whatever else happens, Jem, you have to get rid of Garrick and Reed. Promise me.’
A man will do pretty much anything, given the right motivation: she worked those muscles again and I bucked up into her.
‘You keep doing that, and I’ll kill everyone. Just for you,’ I growled, and grabbing her hips, holding her low, I drove in deep. Because it seemed this was our thing: to speak of death and fuck like there was no tomorrow. Tender then tough, soft then savage, heartfelt and hard and achingly good.
And this time when she came, she took me with her.
There’s always a lull after every storm, a sort of reprieve before the next onslaught, when the frenzy is over and passion’s spent. Never silent, but always peaceful, giving you those few moments to appreciate what it is to be alive. It’s the same after a kill: that heady rush followed by exalted relief. One climax the same as another.
I listened as our breathing steadied, felt the hammering in her chest even out like mine and I lay still, careful not to scrape against her stomach, waiting for her to move off me. But she was in no hurry so I stroked the length of her back, following the ridge of her spine, down then up again, slow and soft. If I could’ve stopped time, I reckon I’d have chosen that moment to do it.
Sighing at last and lifting her head to rest her chin on my chest, she stared at me. ‘What if you’re wrong?’ she asked, breaking the mood.
‘Then it’s business as usual,’ I said, keeping it simple. But I knew I wasn’t wrong. Too many things weren’t adding up.
‘It’s not too late for you,’ she said finally, her voice small but determined, braver than she had any right to be. And I smiled for her.
‘Yeah, it is.’
She didn’t argue. Instead, she asked the impossible. ‘What will you do?’
‘Not a fucking clue,’ I said, pressing my lips to her forehead. ‘I’ve still gotta get to Garrick. And I need to find us a way out of here. Before they make their move.’ I slapped her backside lightly. Fun times were over. ‘C’mon, hop off.’
She didn’t move. ‘What happened to your face?’ she asked, as though noticing for the first time, but I knew she was stalling.
‘Garrick’s way of showing affection. He’s always been good like that.’ I gave her a gentle prod. ‘Let me up.’
‘How did we not realise, Jem? All this time?’
I sighed. ‘Alex, we can stay here and you can keep asking me questions and I’ll keep trying to answer them. But eventually they’re gunna come for us. Is that what you want?’ Her silence was answer enough. ‘Then let me go, so I can finish this.’
If she’d begged and pleaded, if she’d clung to me and held me and kissed me, I’d have stayed, no question. I knew I would. But I was counting on her not doing any of those things. Alex was a fighter. She just needed reminding.
Gently, I raised her up and off me, and she didn’t protest. Unstrapping my boot, I ferreted out the slim package wrapped in its layer of oilskin and handed it to her.
‘It’s just a flick knife, but it’ll do the trick. If you’re sure you can get clear. Until then, keep it hidden.’
I eyed the bare room with a sinking heart, taking in the single cot, the lamp on the wall, the waste pots and the small jug of water next to it on the floor. Nowhere to hide anything. Nowhere to hide at all.
‘I know a place,’ she said softly, and I looked at her.
‘Safe?’
‘Safe enough.’ She slipped her hand between her thighs, pressing lightly, and when I frowned, she said, ‘They haven’t touched me yet, Jem.’
No, they hadn’t. And if they moved her, she’d still have it with her.
‘That’ll work.’ I grinned and gave her a quick kiss. Then, because the idea of that sharp knife folded safe inside its skin and inside her was doing real strange things to me, I said, ‘Can I watch?’
‘No,’ she said, all disapproving and spoiling my fun.
‘At least it’ll go in easy now.’ Touching my mouth to her cheek, then her ear, smiling when I heard her soft sigh, I whispered, ‘And if you don’t end up using it, I’ll help you get it out again.’
That did it, and she turned her head to meet my mouth, kissing me hard before pushing me back. ‘Go,’ she said. And I was the one who sighed.
Standing, I pulled my cloak around her again, this time fastening it, and she bravely smiled her thanks. It felt good to be on the move again, able to square up to whatever was coming, but it was going to be so much harder for Alex.
‘Jem?’
‘What?’ I brushed her cheek with my knuckles.
‘Do it,’ she said, her voice as hard as any man’s. ‘Kill them all. Do it for me.’
Excerpt ~ Letter #19
… some people think we choose how we behave, as though the decision to stand and fight, or to flee, is a conscious one. It’s not. It’s inherent and instinctive, a split-second reaction to danger. And all of us are animals.
Sarah stared at the page and the old quill and the little jar of ink. She hadn’t written a letter for months, and Jeremiah hadn’t asked to see one. She couldn’t think of a single thing that would interest him; nothing she penned could hope to compete with what he’d done.
The room no longer gave her the comfort it once had. Without Daniel, and with Jeremiah’s continued nightly absences, it had become a cell for one, cold and silent. The mornings were only marginally better; she’d wake to see him alive at least, but her greetings were rarely returned, any questions about where he’d been or whom he’d seen either ignored or answered with a careless shrug. Worse were the evenings: the brief twilight meal that she’d watch him gulp down before he rose to leave again without explanation or farewell.
It wasn’t that he was neglecting his duties – he worked each day and collected his water, emptied the pots every morning, bought and fetched wood or seawater when needed, and would even shop at market if she asked – but his sporadic physical presence wasn’t enough to compensate for the long absence of his spirit. That was what she missed, almost as much as she missed Daniel.
Conversation and laughter, the sharing of memories and dreams, were now a thing of the past; she had no idea what he thought, and dreaded to imagine what he
might dream. Give him time, Tee had told her. Let him work it out. But how much time would be enough, and what if he couldn’t? What if he found the trouble he sought, or worse, if it found him?
Tonight, when she’d begged him to stay, citing the earlier curfew, Jeremiah had shrugged his disregard as though such laws had been made for the very purpose of thwarting. Please take care, she’d said. There are so many guards. Only then had he smiled, wolfish and hungry, and said: Yeah, I know! The door slammed behind him and Sarah had slowly sat again to her lonely meal.
Now her hand rested on its heel, holding the quill, reluctant to bend to the paper. It was such an old hand, thin and bony with its ropy blue veins, under-skin rivers that wound through valleys of sinew and muscle. When she died these rivers would dry to no blood, as the rivers of the world had dried to no water, she and the world the same. The thought didn’t depress her; sometimes she even longed for it. But for now, and as long as those veins stayed thick and full, she could only wait for death as patiently as she waited for Jeremiah’s return.
She stared at the paper again. When he finally came home, she was already in bed. But the page was still blank.
Jeremiah pushed his food around on his plate, sullen and brooding. It was something he did when he was worried, but he wouldn’t speak and he kept glancing at the curtain, as though willing even the sun to hurry and set so he might escape. Sarah didn’t know how she knew, but his search was over at last.
She didn’t try to stop him. Not this time. She watched him buckle on his knife – the one Daniel had given him – and pull his cloak over his broadening shoulders without saying a word. And she was almost glad to see him go, relieved that he’d take with him the thick, dark mood that had smothered them both for so long, and cast it off before returning to her, whole again.
Yes, she was happy he was leaving. But later, when he didn’t come home, not that night or the next or any night after, she was terrified.
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